Bleeding Idiots
by icypinkpop
Summary: An AU story set in Ancient Egypt. Yami Bakura, a peasant teenager living on the streets of Egypt, finds himself tied up with the royal Priest, the Millennium Ring, and a young, abused tombkeeper. M/M Yaoi. Yami Marik x Yami Bakura. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Bleeding Idiots**

 **Author:** **icypinkpop**

 **Pairing:** **Psychoshipping (Yami Marik x Yami Bakura)**

 **Warnings:** **Angst, gore, violence, graphic murder, implied sexuality/paedophilia.**

 **Author's note:** **This is a fanfiction work for my best friend, Julesie, who has long lamented the distinct lack of Psychoshipping fan work. I hope that I can give her something entertaining to read, that is based in canon and portrays her favourite characters in a suitable way. Ju, this is for you!**

 **...**

 **I: Initiation**

When you knew you would never amount to anything, you didn't have much to lose.

Brown bread was Bakura's least favourite thing to eat. He stuffed it past his canines anyway, stomach growling and grumbling under the ratty, olive-green tarp that hung over his snow-white shoulders. One bun a day. He usually ate better just sneaking bits from the local market up his sleeve, and raiding vineyards for their sweet grapes.

Then again, he supposed that some fortune had played into that unceremonious event the week prior. Spine pressed to the cold brick with iron bars a few feet in front of his face, he slumped and ran his mind over the happenings of the not-so-distant past. He reached downwards and held the hem of his tunic with dirty fingernails, sitting cross-legged and playing with the simple band around his ankle. Come to think of it, maybe he was actually lucky to be alive after what had happened.

...

" _Bring three more pots of stew to the harem. Another ten concubines were shipped in from Libya yesterday."_

" _Ten?! As if he can use that many! Does Akhnamkanon know?"_

" _Shh! They'll cut your tongue out!"_

 _The two skinny women arguing in the kitchen were blocking Bakura's view. Finally, the voices ceased and he smiled slightly. They hadn't noticed his twisting of the screws on the window-frame with a sharpened stick, nor the shifting of the glass pane as they scurried out from the kitchen. Slowly, he eased the pane down to set it on the ground and slipped inside over the countertop, planting his bare feet on the kitchen floor. It really was the utmost of excitement; dodging the guards hadn't been easy, even while trying to access the palace from the back way, and he had just barely managed to go undetected by climbing through the olive trees and hoisting himself over the brick wall._

 _Times were becoming desperate. Unlike when he was a younger and cuter child, Bakura, at nineteen, could no longer use a wide-eyed stare to convince kiosk owners to feed him a free slice of cheese or leg of fowl. He had resorted, as many orphan teens like himself did, to thievery from markets and gardens. It was enough to get by, but after a couple of years, the pastime had become just as much a diversion as it was a lifeline. Bakura had soon found himself more skilled than ever before, easily picking potatoes and cabbage heads from market stalls and sliding them up his long sleeves without detection._

 _Of course, as skill increases, the excitement in performing the same task over and over goes down. Boredom combined with an outright lack of will to live had brought Bakura to the edge of the palace grounds. Toes curled in the earth beneath him, he had decided what he would do. He would enter unannounced, find something, anything he could steal, and retreat. Anything made of gold or silver would attract a hefty price, but the danger had been the deciding factor in his choice. He knew his life was in jeopardy, and that any guard that happened to walk in at the right time could easily cost him his head…But what did he have to live for, if not a thrill?_

 _Safely in the royal kitchen, Bakura admired for a moment the large racks of utensils. No real gold or silver, his experienced eyes told him, not that that was a surprise. He would have to look deeper inside to find anything valuable, like glass beads, perhaps, or feathers._

 _His hair rose on end immediately at the sound of a door hinge. Brown eyes flicked back and forth and Bakura, spotting a laundry bin by the wall with wheels on the bottom, immediately darted over and collapsed inside. A heap of smelly cloth surrounded him and he gagged silently, pulling it around his body and waiting._

 _Startlingly, the cart began to move. It stopped for a moment, and he thought he might have been seen, but it then resumed movement, the squeaking of the wheels accompanied by the small footsteps of what was presumably one of the servant women. His heart beat fast in his chest as he closed his eyes. This was it…What a chance! Had Isis used her magic to bless him with this stupid servant girl that couldn't recognize an extra 70lb of emaciated person? He smirked._

 _After a few moments, the sound of another door opening and closing met his ears. He bit into his tongue to silence any loud breaths that might have escaped his face. The cart began to move again and came to a halt a few moments later. Unmistakably, the footsteps clicked away and the sound of the door shutting rang out again._

 _There was silence. Bakura released a soft breath through his nose. Perhaps he had been wheeled into a laundry closet, which was a good place to stay for a moment and plot. Slowly, he opened one eye, then the other, and shifted until the covers fell from around his face. The mud brick roof met his eyes from about fifty feet above him. There was light here…_

 _He waited until he was sure he heard no signs of movement before slowly sitting up amongst the mess. The room presented itself to him with gleams. There was an unbelievably large bed in the central space with a deep, blue silk cover hanging over the top, garnished with a multitude of beaded pillows and soft satin throws. He practically salivated as he glanced around; blue Persian rugs over the mud floors, and soft blue and lavender curtains draped among the windows, letting in just enough light to see. Slowly, he rose from the laundry cart and tiptoed further into the room. There were rich, dark wood shelves lining the soft brown walls, slats covered in decorative dishes containing sparkling jewels and gold bangles._

 _A thought occurred to him immediately. This was no servant room, no Harem, and certainly no laundry closet. The Pharaoh…?_

 _It was at this moment that Bakura's eyes trailed from the shelves over the bed down to the small table draped with a white silken cloth that sat beside the window. Something gleamed and he quickly made his way over to it. It…appeared to be a pendant, and a large one, at that. Gold gleamed from the hanging tips around the edge of the outer ring, and an eye, a somehow familiar eye, stood out from the centre of the triangle._

 _Pale fingertips reached for the item. They touched the cool edge and he lifted the necklace. At first, he considered putting it around his neck, but instead he more sensibly tucked it into the front of his shorts under the long tunic cloth, draping his shirt over it carefully._

 _He stood back to his usual height and suddenly, a voice, startled and soft in its delivery, forced Bakura's head to snap back over his shoulder._

" _Huh?"_

 _The person was thin, tall, and pressed back against the door of the bedroom beside the laundry cart. Long chestnut hair framed the golden face, and blue eyes peered at him with terror from their sockets. He opened his mouth out of shock, unable to help what came next._

" _GUARDS!"_

 _..._

Apparently, teenage break-ins were just something that happened at the palace once in a while.

That was what the prison guard here had told him, at least. It was infrequent, but not unheard of. Typically, they were put to death, but since the Pharaoh was out of town on business, there was not yet a formal trial process for Bakura to be put through. Therefore, the authorities had simply thrown him in a general holding cell on the edge of town, and would wait for Atem's return before he could be tried for his crime. Amazingly enough…the person in charge of guarding Bakura and keeping an eye on him didn't seem particularly harsh. He supposed that was how he had managed to save his throat for this long.

He glanced at the very tip of a gilded spike that peeked out from underneath the pillow on top of his cot. He had shunted the item so firmly into the waistband of his shorts that, despite the shaking from the guards and general physical contact, they hadn't detected it under the many layers of material. Bakura supposed he also hadn't been properly investigated due to the room owner's persistent shrieks that he be put into a "JAIL! NOW!". Had that brown-haired fairy remained calm about the incident, he couldn't help but wonder if they would have investigated him more thoroughly. It had seemed rather like the guards were anxious to get rid of him.

Footsteps brought him from his memories and Bakura looked up at the tall, golden male who stood outside the cage bars. Bakura greeted him with a toothy smile. The man wore a brown tunic with a red beaded sash around his waist, as was custom of guards that worked for the monarchy, he knew, and the blond hair was lifted in messy tufts at the sides and backs of his head. They watched each other through the torchlights that beamed from the walls.

"Bedtime."

Bakura scoffed slightly and stood up from where he had been sitting in the corner.

"I'm not tired."

"Go to sleep."

He licked his teeth. For seven days now, this man had been bringing him his daily meal and the wooden bucket he had to use for sanitary purposes. It was disgusting, obviously, but Bakura had become more comfortable than expected. After all, it was a roof over his head, which he didn't have half the time. He was beginning to think he might get away with his stunt after all, by some stroke of luck.

"Where's the Pharaoh? Put me to death already." The man's eyes narrowed at his smirk.

"You're on a thin line, brat. You're lucky I have patience."

Bakura continued to smile. He moved a little closer to the bars, leaving about a foot between the two men.

"Hm, bedtime, you say? You could put me to bed, if you wanted," he said softly and put a hand delicately on one bony hip, tilting his head upwards and to the side.

"Sorry. Single, but not interested."

"Are you sure?" Bakura continued to watch the man, taunting, testing. It was a part of his personality that had become inescapable, especially since the disinterest in life had kicked in. What did he have to fear?

"I'll tell the Pharaoh you'd be good concubine material, then."

Bakura actually winced at that, provoking a little smile from the guard. As if this underling actually had any face-to-face contact with the Pharaoh. Still, the thought was enough to be disgusting.

"Tch." He moved over and plopped his skinny body down on the cot with a sigh. Curious, he glanced back over one shoulder to find the guard still watching him.

"Fine. As you wish, uh…"

"Jono."

The man gave him a lingering look before walking away. It occurred to Bakura that, despite there being a few other cells beside his own, he seemed to be the only prisoner in the jail. The sounds of doors moving kept Bakura awake for a few more minutes, until the darkness whisked him away to sleep.

...

"How much longer?"

"We don't know, sir. The trade regulation arrangements are taking longer than expected."

"What about the prisoners?"

"You only have one here at the moment, right? A Bakura…something or other? We've sent word of his transgressions to the Pharaoh by horse."

"And?"

"No written reply, but one of his royal guards explained to us that petty crimes aren't of interest at the moment. With all the legalities required, the Pharaoh doesn't want to be bothered about issues like this while he's away."

A sigh.

"I see. So we don't wanna move him?"

"You'd have to do it on your own time. We'd recommend giving him the brand and setting him loose. Extra precautions have been taken around the palace in the past three days. We've had no successful entries thus far."

Bakura slowly sat up as he listened to the words being spoken outside the cellblock. He glanced over towards the open door, able to tell the two were outside.

"So what, that's it? You know where this guy was found, right?"

"Yes, but it was most certainly a happy accident on his part. There's no way a ragged kid in that state could have planned his way into that room intentionally. Brand him, so he'll be identifiable in the future if need be. Afterwards, let him go. No use continually putting in food orders to keep him alive."

The voices became softer. Bakura assumed their owners were moving away from the door. He sat up all the way and reached beneath the mattress, gently grasping the golden treasure there and tucking it into the waistband of his pants. He flipped his tunic over it just as the door shut and the blond male he recognized returned to the front. Slowly, as if in a dream, the guard took his key out and unlocked the cell door.

"Looks like you got lucky, kid." Jono entered the cell. Swallowing, having overheard the conversation and realizing what was about to happen, Bakura backed up slightly on the cot.

"The royal messenger told me I can let you out. The Pharaoh don't wanna be bothered with the likes o' you."

Bakura shifted, almost in disbelief. From his own experience and the conversation he had eavesdropped upon, he knew he had done something rather serious.

"…That's it?"

Jono snorted as he looked down on him. "Yeah. You'd better be grateful. I dunno how you ended up in Priest Seth's room, but I'm surprised you still got your head."

Bakura had been in the process of standing up and had to immediately grasp an iron bar to stay on his feet. That…The blue silken sheets flashed in his mind. The silver and gold, the white. Those colours…

"Priest Seth?" he asked with a dry mouth. The High Priest? The one who always stood right behind the Pharaoh at ceremonial stuff with the big hat and blue robes?

Nodding, the blond reached out and snatched Bakura by the hand. He pulled him along like a ragdoll, through the stone corridor to the door, and yanked it open roughly.

The sunlight kissed Bakura's white face. All of a sudden, the smell of nature and the clean breeze of the air caused him to waver on his toes. This was really it…? A slap on the wrist, some nights in a cell, nothing else?

"You mentioned branding," he realized and looked up at the man that held his arms behind his back. Jono raised an eyebrow, seemingly recognizing that he had overheard their conversation.

"Yeah. On the leg. That's what gets done to people who break into the palace, y'know. That way they can identify you if y' get loose." Usually the prisoners were executed anyways, but they were typically branded with Atem's crest beforehand in the unlikely case of an escape.

The hair bristled on the back of Bakura's neck as he stared into the stolid brown eyes. He knew there was no fighting it. He could make a break for it, but Jono's muscled form convinced him not to try. The guy clearly weighed twice as much as he did and had the power to use his bulk effectively. One didn't become a guard of the monarchy without some serious physical speed and strength. Still, the thought of hot iron burning through the flesh of his calf…

"…" And suddenly, his hands were freed. He stumbled forward a little, perching on his toes.

"Get lost."

Bakura turned around and caught sight of Jono's expression. The guy looked slightly unsure, but his hands were at his sides and he stood quietly on the grass without a movement or a shift.

"As far as they know, you're branded, 'kay?" He bit into his lip lightly, as if trying to work his way through a problem. The white-haired male said nothing.

"You're close enough to dead, anyway. No point in causin' you more pain." A pause. "…You got some disease or somethin'. It's obvious." A tanned finger gestured towards Bakura's exposed face and collarbone.

Bakura shrugged softly, used to remarks and looks towards his atypical skin tone.

"Born like this."

Jono sighed and crossed his arms.

"Go on. I see you again, you're dead."

He didn't need to be told twice. Sucking in a deep and long breath of the outside oxygen, Bakura turned and ran. He sprinted his way over the soft soil and grass, for once getting a good look at the surroundings of the holding prison he had managed to escape. It was clearly somewhere on the edge of town, far from the royal grounds, surrounded by the thick brush of forests and long grasses, with only a dirt trail leading up to the small structure where he had lived for seven days. He ran from the path that led towards civilization, instead making his way through the dense trees, feet squishing in the soaked grass and soil that began to envelope his ankles.

He couldn't help but feel a cloudy sense of disappointment pass down through his skull and into his spine. All that work, just to be let off. Not that he had wanted to be struck to death by arrows or branded deep into his flesh, but it seemed almost too easy. He supposed the Pharaoh really was the only person demanding and controlling the executions, and that without him there, prisoners not charged with serious crimes were kind of left in limbo or released to reduce expense.

The soft press of cold metal against his midsection caused him to slow his footsteps, until he slid down against the trunk of a tall tree and sat against a fat root at the base. Slowly, he retrieved the golden item from its hiding place against his skin, extending an arm.

This… The realization dawned on him as he looked at it once more in full view, the sparkling spears that dangled from the body of the ring. Gold shimmered in his eyes. Priest Seth's room…By that fortunate accident, he had ended up in the room of Pharaoh Atem's first cousin, and stolen what appeared to be one of the monarchy's foremost treasures.

A grin moved at the side of his chapped lips, hair dirty and flung over each shoulder to frame his burgeoning smile. What luck, for the establishment to have treated him with such disregard, like a common street beggar who wasn't capable of hiding anything, let alone using his brain? It almost seemed like a sign from the gods. This beautiful artefact, whatever it was, had chosen him. He slowly lifted it and hung the cord around his neck, but wasn't stupid; he tucked the pendant beneath his baggy shirt, watching as it disappeared from view.

His first instinct was to sell it. Clearly, it was at least plated with gold, and would fetch a high price at the market. However, since it seemed to be a piece from the nobility, he knew he would have to exercise caution. Usually, guards and other such persons from the palace didn't typically frequent the peasant marketplaces, but he knew a piece like this would attract attention, possibly from somebody who could identify it as Priest Seth's and make Bakura's incredible escape all for nothing. It seemed obvious that going through the black market was a better route. By doing so, he would be able to meet with other rare item collectors who knew how to keep their mouths shut about the rarity and illegality of certain items. He anticipated a high price point, as well.

"Heh. Suckers." Bakura stood up slowly against the tree and felt the gold clinking against his stomach. Oddly enough, the thought of keeping the item occurred to him in that moment. It seemed so exquisite, and such a bizarre and fortunate coincidence, that he should be awarded with such a treasure after living his entire life off the scraps of society. Perhaps it foreshadowed even greater things to come.

A thrill of life surged through his blood. The smart thing to do would be to sell the item, but that didn't mean he couldn't wear it on his person until that time came. He was aware of an underground market at the north western edge of the province, one that would likely accept his treasure with open wallets. Smirking to himself, the shaggy-haired male took off along the edge of the forest, toeing his way across some stones to cross the small stream that burbled in his path. The smell of grass and cool forest air brushed past his cheeks, and he revelled in the silence. He would take the scenic route.

Night fell, and the thin male found himself sat against another tree with a small fire blazing before his lap. He had been fortunate to locate a slightly drier area, further from the streams and winding rivers that cut through the woods, where he had been able to collect some dry twigs and make himself a one-person campsite. In addition, he had successfully trapped a freshwater eel in the previous stream and was now roasting it on a spit above the flames, watching it cook to a delectable golden brown. The little leather anklet began to warm against his calf, sending a pleasant swath of heat down through his pale toes.

He had been nodding off slightly to the scent of dinner when the sound of wings flapping and shrill squawks brought him back to the present. He sat up quickly and looked around. There was nobody in sight. Immediately assuming somebody had followed him into the area, Bakura got to his feet and peered around the tree, gazing into the dimness of the surroundings. The clearing he had chosen had seemed so secluded…

He saw no one. Perhaps it had been a large animal? Rarely, lions and other types of animals frequented these forests, since they were far more secluded and near the water sources than most of Egypt. Keeping on his toes, the slender form moved his way through the brush towards the edge of the clearing a few feet away, using the moonlight to guide his pale feet over tree roots and clumps of long grass.

Bakura caught sight of movement and immediately ducked behind the nearest tree. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner. A shadow appeared to take the form of a tall, hooded figure, barely discernible as it made its way over the grass towards the edge of the forest about ten feet away. He held his breath as the figure bent down, seemingly fiddling with something on a patch of ground. The back arched, and a low, dull creaking sound ground through the pale ears.

He winced as the compact patch of ground was lifted. Dark hands emerged from the sleeves of the robe and the figure stood, lifting the hatch from the earth and allowing it to fall back as if hinged. Bakura could make out the sight of mud-brick stairs leading down from the hatch into the darkness. Without pause, the figure began to descend. The same hand extended and grasped the edge of a thick rope sitting over the top step, pulling the hatch back down and closing it completely with a dull creak.

Puzzled was too weak of a word to use in this kind of circumstance. What kinds of people lived underground? He had heard legends of people doing so for ritual or ceremonial purposes, but the stories had ended there without much more to them besides speculation. Wary, Bakura made his way back to the fire and removed the eel from the spit.

He ate his meal in silence, crunching on the bones. It was hard for him to ignore…but perhaps it was the smart thing to do. Once he was done, he could find a more secluded place to stay the night. He was skilled at being homeless, anyways, and it wouldn't be hard to find a comfortable tree limb or a clearing with nobody in it. He gnawed into the head and licked the scales against his tongue, spiked bangs perking on either end of his forehead. People could be creepy.

"nnnrrAAHHH!"

More birds cried and beat their ways out of the surrounding trees and Bakura leapt up away from the fire. No matter how far-away that scream had sounded, it was like a death-shout…

His heart began to go into overtime. Something scary was happening. Perhaps this was where they brought bad slaves, to be tortured to death with needles in their eyes. He had heard urban legends about that, too. Slow, putting one foot before the other, he nervously approached the clearing again. He jerked back instinctively at the sight of the hatch wide open, rope dangling onto the soil. Why was it open?

"AHGGGH!"

He tensed and jerked backwards again. He could hear more voices now, some shouting, that same one screaming as if it were the last sounds it would ever make. He knew he should run. There was no way it was safe to be near this kind of a situation…

And yet he took a step forwards. A small voice in his mind reminded him that he wanted to stay alive; he had something valuable to sell, after all. Still, he slowly inched his way over to the hatch. Making sure there was nobody in the clearing around him that he could see, he bent to his knees and squinted down into the hole. He couldn't see anything…

So, for Ra-knew-what reason, he planted his small white foot with the small anklet onto the first step, following with the next as he descended. The darkness began to fade into a deep red, illuminated by a torch Bakura identified on the brick wall to his immediate right.

As he went down further, foot by foot, a louder scream met his ears, followed by shouts and raucous yells. He shifted back but stood silently, eyes adjusting to the darkness, gazing with trepidation and fearful excitement at the scene before him.

The space opened up at the base of the stairs into a large, mud-brick room lit by torches mounted on all sides of the wall. In the centre of the room were two figures, one thrashing and pulling away from the other, who appeared to have the first's arms behind his back. The screams and shouts echoed throughout the cold cave.

"Father!"

"Sit down! Sit!"

"YAAGH!" From his dark spot a few feet away from the nearest torch, Bakura observed the scene. The taller, more powerful figure struggled to keep hold on the thinner one. The sight of the wet and jerking face brought his focus to the person in front, who pulled and kicked as if it were his last chances at life. Blond, wild hair exploded in tufts around the wet eyes and open mouth, framing the dark skin with glistening gold. The slender male in a cream-colored tunic similar to Bakura's continued to thrash until his head was yanked backwards by the hooded male, whose physical details were not nearly as evident.

The gleam of a knife at the dark throat flashed before Bakura's eyes.

"Father!"

"SIT!"

The blonde's voice was weaker now, choked by the thickness of tears that began to drip from his chin. The top of his face was obscured by hair, and Bakura inhaled slowly, trying to keep as silent as possible as the pleading echoed dimly through the room.

He would have assumed this was prostitution or slave punishment, had he not heard that word… A son, disobeying his parent?

"You have to receive the initiation!"

A disgusting gargling noise brought Bakura's eyes back to the two. The thin male had collapsed to the ground and had his hands around his neck, grasping, as if trying to push and hold himself together. Before Bakura could make any move to escape the dungeon, the blond male raised his head slowly as the taller figure messed about behind him, seemingly preparing something. The person set the knife on the table behind the two, where it gleamed, and Bakura glanced back to find the blond with his head raised and wide, light eyes gazing right into his own from across the room.

The eyes pierced him and he froze. They were wide eyes, seemingly a light grey or blue, and spilling over with tears. The forehead was dark with bruises, and blood coated the bronze lips and chin. The mouth was open and tongue out slightly, and Bakura's gaze moved down to the golden hands that grasped at the neck there. A fountain of dark crimson erupted over the fingers as they fought to hold it in.

Slowly, he looked up and met the silent, light eyes for a second time, the desperation sending a chill through his veins.

"…" He tiptoed his way down slowly. Breaking their gaze, he reached the fourth to final step and, holding his breath, made a soft leap. The pair was about fifteen feet from him, on the other edge of the room, so he remained in the shadow. The robed figure was behind the blond still, sliding the sleeve of his robe along the blade. This had to be fast…

Bakura turned and surveyed the shelves along the sides of the room, looking at the numerous rolls of papyrus and ornamental metal decorations. The glass of a gleaming bottle caught his eye and he made his way up, snatching it quietly by the neck and grasping it tightly in his fingers. It didn't appear to be filled with anything. Perfect.

He exhaled in relief, and jerked in horror when the robed figure turned to face him. Eyes gleamed from inside the hood, and suddenly, the large figure rushed him fast, the clap of sandals on hard earth thumping in Bakura's ears.

"Who the fuck?!"

Bakura turned and darted to the side, keeping the bottle behind his back as he did so. His eyes had fully adjusted and he watched as the male jumped after him, trailing a few feet behind. He grit his teeth and growled. Like hell he was going to die at the hands of some nameless asshole!

"C'mere!"

Fingertips grabbed at the back of his hair and he spun, swinging his arm around. The body of the bottle slammed forcefully into the hard skull and the man screamed, falling first-first into the brick of the steps that lead down into the room.

"AGH!"

Glass shattered and sprinkled along the brick with small clinks. Bakura yanked his arm backwards, staring at the sharp-edged bottleneck in his grasp and dropping immediately to his knees.

Before the man could retaliate any further, he swiftly thrust the ragged glass down and shoved it into the back of the man's neck. Blood immediately shot up and spurted through the cloth of the hood as the man's wails echoed and emanated around the room, body convulsing pitifully in the corner. Bakura stood immediately, knees aching as he turned around and met those light eyes once again. He paused before quickly taking off in the male's direction, standing before him with the hesitancy of ambivalence. The dark-skinned boy grasped his neck still, blood leaking over his fingers in small streams. As they watched one another, the blond glanced to the side where the hooded figure lay twitching, and then returned his gaze to Bakura. For a moment, Bakura realized what he had done, and wondered for a second or two, until their eyes met again.

Then, they blond began to smile. His lips spread and he stared at the pale man with a wide grin, blood dripping from over his fingernails.

Without a thought, Bakura smiled in return. If nothing else, this was going to be interesting.

...

Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Bleeding Idiots**

 **Author:** **icypinkpop**

 **Pairing:** **Psychoshipping (Yami Marik x Yami Bakura)**

 **Warnings:** **Angst, gore, violence, graphic murder, implied sexuality/paedophilia.**

 **Author's note:** **This is a fanfiction work for my best friend, Julesie, who has long lamented the distinct lack of Psychoshipping fan work. I hope that I can give her something entertaining to read, that is based in canon and portrays her favourite characters in a suitable way. Ju, this is for you!**

 **...**

 **II: Scars**

It wasn't easy, helping someone larger than you walk up a flight of stairs when that someone wasn't able to use his legs very well. After about twenty minutes of hard work, Bakura actually managed to pull the blond up out from the hole in the ground. Just for good measure, he yanked the rope and shut the hatch with a loud creak. The hooded old man had still been wheezing and gasping when he had left, but he doubted that would be true for much longer.

Silent despite some grunts, the two meandered out of the clearing and through the trees. Blood dripped before their feet as they walked along, dragging their bare heels through the wet dirt. Bakura helped hold the male up with one arm around his back and under the tan bicep, walking until he felt the other's knees become weak, and the weight in his grasp increase. Sighing, he helped him sit down and squatted beside him at the edge of the small stream that cut through the brush.

They sat in quietness alongside the burbling of the brook. Noting that the stranger still grasped and held tight to his throat, Bakura grunted and reached out, tearing the blonde's tunic at the base and yanking off a long strip of cloth.

"Show me."

The man looked unsurely at Bakura, but obeyed. It was difficult not to recoil at the sight of the deep throat wound, spanning from the left shoulder to the centre of the collarbone. Wincing but noting that the stranger was still breathing normally, he reached out and began to wrap the thick cloth around the gaping wound, watching as blood immediately began to soak through the rough woven cotton.

"Ngh." The blond winced and shifted, but allowed Bakura to tie a knot. His face, still encrusted with dried blood and purpled with bruises, turned Bakura's way, and their eyes locked again. Even in the low moonlight, the white male made an observation; the eyes that he had thought were blue, or perhaps, grey, were actually a light lavender. The two watched each other for a minute before the blond flashed a slow and eager grin, eyes narrowing under his bloodstained bangs.

"The old geezer had it coming."

The guy's voice was raspy but full of mirth. Bakura bit his lip and chuckled. It occurred to him how bizarre and ridiculous his own actions had been, putting himself in a dark dungeon with a possible psychopath wielding a knife to rescue somebody he didn't even know. Still, he couldn't help but think he had made the right decision.

"No shit," he muttered and sat back beside the other. He stole a glance at his neck, which, though soaked with blood, appeared to no longer be spurting or leaking.

"What the hell was that about?"

The blond frowned and looked down. They were silent again for a few minutes. Bakura wondered if maybe he shouldn't have asked.

"My father," the man explained a few minutes later, expression betraying his exhaustion and pain. "I am from the Ishtar family. We are a family of tomb-keepers for the Pharaoh's lineage."

Bakura couldn't help but snort dismissively. The Pharaoh. Yeah, right. He glanced at the man with the intention of calling him out and paused as his eyes roamed the dark face, the thick, black kohl drawn around the lavender eyes, segmented in places by smudges of blood. There was also a single, thin gold ring around the top of the tan neck above the bloody wound. Gold…

"Ah," he replied a little awkwardly. He didn't know anything about tomb-keeping, but he supposed a guy like this had no reason to lie.

"So, what? The Pharaoh's alive. His father is alive. Whose tomb are you keeping?"

"His grandfather's." There was a measured breath between them. The stranger continued as he held one hand to his neck, obviously still in pain.

"Akhnamkanon's father, Ahnhotep, died twenty years ago while his son was still in power. Atem hadn't been born yet. The Priesthood chose my family to guard his tomb."

"…It was down there?" Bakura asked slowly, finding that hard to believe. Not that he knew anything about a Pharaoh that had died before his own birth, but out in a forest somewhere?

"Yep. In the adjacent room." The stranger tilted his head and, quickly, his solemn face upturned into the same grin from before.

"And you spilled my father's blood right beside him. Perfect. Keheh."

Bakura couldn't help but smile back. From the initial meeting of eyes, he had known there was something he liked about this person. How his attitude had managed to shine out from the eyes smeared with pain and desperation, he wasn't sure, though.

"Tch. Your own father, treating you like that?"

"I don't want to be a tomb keeper," the blond mused in return and stretched his legs out on either side of him, tearing another strip slowly from his tunic and carefully wrapping it around his bleeding neck on top of the already soaked bandage. "I haven't been outside that hellhole since I was four years old. My mother died then. She would let me outside to play. Father made stay underground and study, instead." As if to savour the feeling, he shut his eyes and took a slow breath of the night-time air, displaying the thick black liner on the tops of his eyelids, this time. Bakura thought he understood.

"So you rebelled."

"I got sick of it." The male spat blood to the side as if to prove his point, eyes narrowed and tired. "Reading, sitting in the dark alone. Keh. Getting whipped and having scripture carved into my back when I was 'bad'. I'd rather be dead."

"…Well, you're not," Bakura commented in reply before sitting there in the quiet, listening to the stream as it whooshed past in front of them. Despite being somewhat involved with the royal family, Marik still wore the torn, stained tunic of a poor man. Bakura would almost say they looked like two wild-haired twins fresh from a downtrodden village or ghetto.

"…Whatever your name is."

"Marik." The two locked eyes again, Bakura noting the blood hardening under the soft purple eyes. He smiled slightly and raised an eyebrow.

"Bakura."

The silence wasn't uncomfortable as they sat in it. As a matter of fact, it seemed relatively calming. The stream ran by at their bare feet as they sat, Marik playing with the hem of his shirt and Bakura picking blades of grass from the ground between his fingers. At one point, the blond crown of hair raised itself upwards and Bakura looked down to catch the smirk he was being given.

"You look like a corpse."

Bakura snorted and rolled his eyes. He hadn't ever actually heard that one before, though he'd heard a lot of similar things. "Born like this," he replied as he usually did, leaning his head back against the trunk of the tree.

"Heheh. Like a waterlily. The white ones."

"Hn." He paused and turned to face him again, not appreciating the comparison. "Can you walk?"

"Eh?"

"It isn't smart to stay here," Bakura clarified and sat up all the way. "If somebody finds your father down there, they'll search the area for the killers. Us."

"Nnh." Marik nodded slowly but stared at the stream lifelessly, as if he didn't want to move.

"Nowhere else to go," he replied after a few moments. Bakura winced.

"…Me neither." He stood up anyway and brushed his tunic off with white fingers. "But there's not a chance in hell I'm letting any of the Pharaoh's dick-sucking little servants catch me off my toes." Slowly, a grin quirked at the corners of his mouth, amber eyes glimmering in the low light. Marik watched him curiously.

"I have too much to live for. See ya."

He turned and made his way off into the clearing. He stumbled his way around a large tree and heard the squishing of wet grass behind him, turning and catching sight of the tomb keeper's son lagging slightly at his left shoulder. The two fell into pace with one another, Marik a little slower and holding a hand to his throat, but managing to keep up. Around them, crickets chirped in the darkness among the brush, and the cold moisture of dew slid between their toes and slicked their ankles and calves. A familiar camaraderie seemed to connect their spirits, as if they were a murderer and a pleased accomplice. Bakura found himself quite content. He had only met the man thirty minutes prior, and he already recognized a sense of trust. Clearly, if either of them divulged the crime in question to an officer of the law, the other would be there to incriminate the defector. Therefore, there seemed to be a reasonable truce between them.

Besides, even though Marik hadn't been the one to initiate the killing, it was clear that he had hated the man and had no reason to bring his corpse any justice. He hadn't even mentioned a sarcophagus or burial. The hatred had to be strong, there.

As they walked, excitement began to burn in Bakura's veins. He could feel the metal, cold and smooth, as it pressed against his abdomen. The rings jingled slightly and rubbed against his stomach, secured by the tight band of his shorts underneath the tunic. Oh, how rich he was going to be! Rich enough for a real house, surely, and probably food for a long, long time, too…He could taste the butter on his tongue, smell the fried fish over the fire, and feel the soft fur carpet underneath his feet!

"Where are we going?"

Bakura turned and looked to see Marik watching him. He turned away again and sighed, staring up at the sky. For once, Ra had blessed a person like him; someone poor and common, disgusting in appearance. He didn't plan to let it go to waste.

"I have a pending business deal I need to work out," he said simply and continued to weave through the brush, aware he was approaching the edge of the forest. "We'll set up camp somewhere safer and head out tomorrow morning."

"Business deal?"

Bakura was surprised to hear snickering.

"What do you have to sell? Your body? Heheh. How much?"

"Feh." Bakura actually chuckled at the thought of that, aware of just how unattractive and sickly he looked.

"You'll find out tomorrow." Marik seemed a little dissatisfied (as evidenced by a mumble), but the two continued on.

The chosen resting spot happened to be at the mouth of the river. Without any further conversation, the pair situated themselves by the gushing cavern and pillowed their heads on the thick grass. They lay beside one another under the cover of the treetops, tunics and feet stained grass-green, as the crickets chirped around them throughout the night.

...

It was barely light outside when Bakura woke himself. The fresh breeze wafted against his forehead, alerting him to the warmth of the rising sun. Forgetting his new companion for the time being, he made the few paces to the edge of the stream and reached up, stripping off his filthy tunic and removing the ratty shorts from his thin hips. In the haze of sleep, he sank his way in.

He enjoyed his soak under the lightly running water, thin shoulders peeking from above the bubbling fluid. His long, white hair draped over each shoulder and he sank further, soaking his tresses and running his hands through them, working out the thick knots at the base of his neck. What with Egypt's intense heat, a cold-water soak was quite the treat. After dunking himself under a few times, using his hands to wash the soil from his limbs, he leaned back against the pile of rocks and relaxed again. He came to anticipate each wash of the cool water over his collarbones.

What he didn't anticipate was being suddenly slammed against the bank and then dragged under the surface.

"Pffbt!" Water flooded his nose and mouth and he hacked as he clambered to the surface, fingernails sinking into the soil of the bank as he coughed and hacked. Water dripped from his hair and chin as he sputtered, the loud, tinny laughter erupting behind him in shouts.

"WAHAHAHA! Hah!"

Bakura spun around immediately to stare at the soaking blond, breathing heavily through his mouth and spitting to the side. The light mane was equally dripping and stood up impressively around his flushed face, which bore a big grin and narrowed, amused eyes.

"...Hilarious," Bakura snorted in response and turned around. Something occurred to him in that moment.

"Your kohl stayed on," he commented, gesturing. Marik reached up to touch it, standing a couple feet away from him on the shallow bank.

"It's tattooed," he explained, still smiling and shaking his hair out. Bakura watched the male dunk himself a few times and sighed. The torn cloth was still around the golden neck and, though red, didn't appear to be fresh with blood, which he supposed was a good sign. It was hard to put an age to Marik, but if he had to guess, he would say they were similar in that regard. Surprisingly, he seemed to have a good attitude despite the obvious torture he had experienced. He sensed that something was a little off, though…

Finished with his bathing anyways, the pale boy turned and hoisted himself back onto the bank, sitting on his knees. He raised himself to full height, turning to taking a glance at Marik and locking eyes with him for a moment before facing the other way and heading off towards where he had left his dusty clothes.

Some splashing met his ears, but he ignored it. The weirdo was just playing, or something. Shaking his head, he lifted his tunic and began to shake it out when he heard the sound of pounding footsteps behind him. Bristling, immediately worried that he was somehow in trouble with the law once again, he made a half-turn towards the noise and suddenly tasted dirt against his teeth.

"AGH!" The ground pounded unyieldingly against his fair cheek, and the metallic flavour of blood flooded his mouth. He spun onto his back and felt a tightening sensation against his neck, brown eyes darting up, meeting purple ones. He screamed in frustration and reached out, one hand planting itself on the earth to steady his movements when he spotted the swinging spikes between their bodies. He had forgotten he was still wearing the-

"What is this?!" Golden hands were tugging, clinging for the heavy ring. He immediately reached up and yanked the item into his own grasp, struggling against Marik's strength. The eyes narrowed and seethed at him silently.

"Who the fuck are you?! A spy from the palace?!"

"Get OFF!" Bakura managed to free one leg and shunted his heel against the golden chest. This sent Marik flying backwards and he gasped a choking breath when the dark hands yanked his chain, momentarily squeezing the air from his lungs. He scrambled back and got to his feet, blood trailing down his lips and over his teeth.

Obviously, he had been wrong. This guy wasn't sane or pleasant, at all.

Panting, he stared as Marik righted himself and got to his feet. He followed the startled gaze back to the ring, which sat against his white breast, still slightly swinging from impact. That? Was this what he was upset about?

"…It's mine," he spat to the side. That had to be it. This guy wanted to rip him off.

"Lies," Marik replied, baring his teeth. Slowly, rage began to build in his face until his cheeks were a dark purple under the already blue bruises. At that moment, Bakura considered that it might be a good option to run for the hills, but the confusion of the situation had him wondering.

"…A fucking spy? What makes you think that?" he asked, gripping the ring stolidly like a lifeline.

Marik took a frightening step forward, wet hair soaked and on end like a cat's bristled fur.

"The Millennium Ring."

Bakura froze. He looked down slowly and then back up, fearful he would be attacked if he broke eye contact. Millennium…?

"You're part of the monarchy," the blond seethed, taking another quick step. Bakura took a quicker step backwards in retaliation. Running seemed like a more appealing option with each passing second.

"Part of those…fucking…disgusting…"

"I'm not," the light male replied lowly, standing his ground. Despite being just as thin and malnourished, Marik was considerably taller, and obviously enraged.

"Bitch! Gonna tell your little palace friends? Have them cut off my head for the old man's death?!"

"I stole this!" Bakura shouted, and then recoiled, startled by the change in character. It was as if a switch had flipped. In moments, Marik's expression faded from rage and hatred to the very definition of curiosity. The purple eyes opened wide and he gasped, posture straightening.

He couldn't avoid it as the blond bounded over to him and bent down slightly. He tensed but stood stiffly, one foot back, preparing to bolt off into the woods at the slightest sign of violence.

"…Stole?" The lavender eyes flashed up at him like the shine on new silver coins. He grunted in response.

"…Heeeh…" Marik poked the thing with a finger before grasping it again. Bakura winced but watched as he held it lightly this time, no longer pulling or yanking, but running his fingertips over it instead.

"Should've known. They wouldn't let a guy like you work for 'em." He grinned, as if he had made a great joke.

"You're cool."

"…" Bakura was unnerved. A spy? This guy had actually thought he came from the palace? Like, worked for the Pharaoh? All because of…

"What is this thing?" he asked when he could find the voice, wary but looking Marik in the eye honestly. "Millennium Ring?"

Marik looked up at him slowly and sat down, for reasons Bakura could only guess. He peered through his dripping bangs and shifted onto his backside, long legs crossed in front of him.

"The Millennium Ring," he murmured with a smirk, turning his head slightly. "Don't tell me you picked this up by accident? Huh?"

Bakura slowly sat himself down as well, finding looking down at Marik awkward. He watched him flatly, sighing and holding the necklace against his body. It occurred to him momentarily that they both were naked, but it didn't really matter to him right now. This guy knew something he didn't.

"I got into Priest Seth's room," he stated, narrowing his eyes. Marik sat up straighter as if zapped by an electric shock, face the picture of surprise.

"…THE Priest Seth?"

"Uh huh." Bakura scratched behind one ear. He supposed it wouldn't hurt, telling Marik the story. He was such a freak, nobody would believe him if he told them, anyway.

"I broke into the palace through the kitchen window. I was looking for some silver, or beads, or anything…Long story short, I ended up in Seth's room by mistake. This was sitting on the table by the window," he explained, holding the ring up in one hand and gesturing to it. Marik seemed to be listening eagerly. He huffed, finding the childish amazement sort of bizarre. The guy seemed enraptured.

"So I snuck it out under my pants. They caught me and stuck me in a cell for a week, but the Pharaoh's out of Egypt and won't be back. The guard let me go free." He slid his fingertip along the ring edge. "Obviously, they think I left empty-handed."

The blond watched Bakura, almost looking as if he were suspicious. The pale man put his hands up in a pose of surrender.

"It's true. Tell me what you know."

Marik seemed hesitant, smiling one moment and appearing as though he were in disbelief the next. Moments later, he began to crawl forward and touched the ring again with his fingertips, smoothing them over the eye in the centre of the triangle. Bakura huffed.

"Tell me. What the hell is a Millennium Ring?"

"There are seven of them," Marik stated finally after his break of silence, gaze and hand still fixed on the artefact. "Seven Millennium items, all different. Forged by the destruction at a village in Northern Egypt, where inhabitants were burned alive…"

The light eyes gazed up at him again. "I've read about them during my schooling." Bakura nodded once, urging him to go on.

"…Their blood was used to forge the seven items. This, the Millennium Ring, is one of them." A small, almost silly grin pulled itself over Marik's lips.

"The Pharaoh's Millennium Puzzle is another."

Bakura was about to open his mouth to snap at Marik for whatever joke he looked like he was about to tell when the full meaning of those words sank through his brain like ice water soaking into a sponge. He jolted backwards.

"…That fucking pyramid necklace is a puzzle?" he asked brashly, eyes wide as he looked down. This thing was Pharaoh-calibre jewellery?!

"Mhm. The Millennium Puzzle," Marik chimed in, smile wide with mirth. "You got lucky!"

He was floored. Not only had this belonged to one of the highest members of the monarchy, but it was a few ounces away from being the damn thing the Pharaoh himself wore around his own neck?

"…How many millions?" he breathed as he got to his feet. He walked over towards where he had left his tunic and began to pull it on over himself, slightly annoyed when Marik also got to his feet and ran to be at his side. He sent him a sideways look.

"You're the expert. How much will someone pay me for this thing?"

"Hmmm." This question seemed to stump Marik, who narrowed his eyes and shook his head at him.

"They're priceless," he concluded. "They're treasures of the royal family. They aren't sold."

"Well, this one's fucking going to be," Bakura replied with a little smirk. He pulled his dusty shorts up underneath his tunic, confused by the sombre and dull look in Marik's previously shining eyes. This guy's emotions were too volatile…It could be a serious problem, if he brought him anywhere near people.

Marik glanced at him sideways. "They're rumoured to have great power," he breathed, voice low. Bakura bent in closer to hear.

"Power to kill…Power to control minds." The uncertain grin that followed was creepy, to say the least.

It occurred to Bakura that perhaps the guy was just naturally suspicious. Maybe growing and developing over time in a dark cavern with no light or reasonable people had caused him to believe in things that went bump in the night. Ghosts, devils, whatever he seemed to associate with this item, didn't really matter. The thing was Pharaoh-quality, palace-wrought, and Bakura was having a sneaking feeling he would never have to steal scraps from markets again if he managed to find a buyer.

"Really?" he yawned in response, ring tucked beneath his tunic now and pressing cold against his chest. "Then I guess whoever buys it will be a lucky bastard, won't he? Help me sell it. I suppose I should have someone who can explain what the hell this is." He smiled slightly. "I'll give you two percent. Fair?"

Surprisingly, Marik responded to that with a relatively normal chuckle. The blond had picked up his own clothes and was now dressing into them as Bakura had, watching him silently, as though he were in thought. Bakura waited, aware it was early. He had some time to make his way to the north of town and find someone who could take this thing off his hands and leave him with a life of security and lavishness, but he did want to get a head start.

"…I'm going to get a book," was the confusing reply. Dumbfounded, Bakura watched as his confident stood back onto his feet and made his way past him, through the brush. He turned around and immediately followed him around the trees, weaving his way back into the clearing just in time to watch Marik descend right back down into the hovel from whence he had been rescued the night before.

As promised, he returned, a thick book tucked underneath one arm. Deciding he didn't even want to know, Bakura shook his head and walked off in the direction of the forest edge. Marik traipsed along beside him, without complaint, book held out in front of his face as he read and leafed through it.

Even though this wasn't what he had had planned, the pale man supposed it was working out in his favour. Not only had he somehow had the fortune to snatch the one thing in that palace room that was probably worth a hundred times more than anything else there, but he had picked up someone smart who knew what it was and could affirm its importance. It was as if the winds of the world had turned in his direction of travel, moving him along like fallen leaves on the surface of a river.

He grinned to himself beneath his wet and stringy white bangs. Oh, yes. Pretty soon, he would have to make a trip to the bank, as well.

...

It was nearly sundown by the time they reached the north-eastern end of town by foot. They had weaved through the forest to get there, as per Bakura's desire to stay as much out of sight as possible, before reaching the assay of tents scattered across the open space, where the soil beneath their feet began to turn to sand. The setting sun cast a pink haze over their surroundings and Bakura stood behind a tree, Marik crouched behind him.

"No lights." Usually, when it was this dark out, there were fires going and candles gleaming from within tents where people lived and worked. It was too late for most legal activities to be going on, but Bakura had expected the illicit ones to be in full swing. He had heard of this area several times when interacting with other thieves and thugs in the past, about how perfect a spot it was for illegal activity since it was near the edge of the woods and far from the palace and central markets. Still, as he surveyed the many standing tents, not a single light appeared to be flickering from within them.

It made him uneasy. Despite being a criminal, he hadn't attempted any high-risk activities like this one since entering the palace on a whim. Perhaps the lights were off intentionally. Maybe it was part of the test…He glanced back at Marik who, annoyingly, appeared to be engrossed in his book. Bakura snorted.

His best guess would be to approach a tent and make himself known. "Amber" was the code word he had been given by an acquaintance, who had told him they had found a bottle of imported perfume that had fallen off a cart once and brought it there to be exchanged for a few bags of gold. Even if the code word had changed since then, a few months back, he expected that merely being aware of it would lend credence to the fact that he was there on business.

He rested for a moment, a little nervous to make the first move, and took a glance back at his cohort. He recalled their conversation from earlier and thought silently, watching the tents before them for any sight of movement before he would approach.

"How did your mother die, anyways?" he inquired softly, eyes narrowing in on one of the tents. He heard Marik shift behind him and turned. Maybe he shouldn't test him, he considered, but Marik was looking at him sanely enough, it seemed.

"Childbirth," was the quiet response. "My baby brother…" A breath, and then a look down. "She died, but he survived. They took him away."

Bakura paused. He hadn't been aware Marik had siblings, not that he'd asked.

"Who did?"

"…Hngh." The lavender eyes flicked back upwards to watch Bakura, causing a gentle sense of unease to blossom in the pale stomach.

"The fucking palace guards," he grunted eventually, tilting his blond head in the other direction. "Think they can do whatever the fuck they want just 'cause we were tomb-keepers. He was just eleven…"

That surprised Bakura. It seemed like tomb-keepers were really beholden to the Pharaoh and his subordinates, more so than he would have expected them to be, but to steal a child and take him away from his family? Come to think of it, Marik's outbursts from before made sense. Not only was the monarchy responsible for his shitty life in a dungeon, but also apparently for the loss of his only sibling.

"…What did they do with him?" he chanced softly, curiosity getting the better of him. Marik's head snapped back to look at him, anger clear in his eyes.

"Probably used him for a fucking slave," he spat. "Hell if I know. He's gotta be dead in a ditch somewhere. Those…hh…"

The blond began to breathe heavily, and Bakura could see his golden fingers tensing in the fabric of his tunic. That was enough. Shaking his head, he shifted around to face him and put his hands on his shoulders, gritting his teeth.

"Shh. We won't talk about it," he told him quietly, aware they were still in a dangerous situation. Surprisingly, Marik took a deep breath and merely looked up at him, silent and seemingly a little confused. Bakura sighed in relief, turning around. There didn't seem to be any movement from the tents, so now was as good a time as any.

"Stay there," he told the blond and took a step out from behind the tree.

A loud horn blast sent him scurrying back behind the same trunk, grasping a hold of it with bony fingers in terror. He vaguely recognized the feeling of Marik's warm body behind him and shuddered. What the fuck?!

Slowly, the trotting of hooves began to slowly fade into earshot. He looked around the tree into the open space alongside the tents. First, a figure walked his way into view, clad in a dark material and sporting a deep red sash around his waist. Behind him marched around ten more men, walking along in time, leading a large, horse-drawn carriage with two tawny grey horses at the lead. Bakura couldn't have been any whiter when he noted the canopy draped over the person seated in the front, at such an angle that he could view the petite frame and tan robes that covered it. Gold gleamed visibly from the seated figure's neck and ears, his arms and wrists, and his ankles, which were propped up at the front of the carriage as it wheeled its way across the sand.

At once, it occurred to Bakura why the people who did their illicit deeds in those tents had probably decided to leave their lights off that evening.

"The Pharaoh is back in town," came a voice from behind him. He turned to see Marik watching the group as it passed by, watching as it made its way up over the top of the hill before disappearing behind the dune. The sounds of hooves and footsteps trailed long into the distance before fading to complete silence. At once, Bakura could hear the beating of his heart instead. The danger was back; the knowledge that, were one person to look his way, his head would be gone. The coldness of the illegal gold pushed against his beating heart. He grinned and looked at Marik, who appeared startled.

The blond glanced down to where Bakura held the ring beneath his tunic, and narrowed his eyes. Surprisingly, he smiled back at him. It seemed he also knew the thrill, understood the high of danger and risk.

"Better pawn that thing off fast," he told him, and Bakura looked down at his own bony fingers, energy surging through his sore and tired muscles.

"Heh, yeah."

Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Bleeding Idiots**

 **Author:** **icypinkpop**

 **Pairing:** **Psychoshipping (Yami Marik x Yami Bakura)**

 **Warnings:** **Angst, gore, violence, graphic murder, implied sexuality/paedophilia.**

 **Author's note:** **This is a fanfiction work for my best friend, Julesie, who has long lamented the distinct lack of Psychoshipping fan work. I hope that I can give her something entertaining to read, that is based in canon and portrays her favourite characters in a suitable way. Ju, this is for you!**

 **...**

 **III: Plans**

After checking the surrounding area to find that, indeed, any black market buyers had left the area for now, the two cohorts found themselves seated outside one of the smallest deserted tents. They had deliberately chosen one with no items inside, not wanting to be caught and attacked for supposed theft, and had set up a fire in the sand a couple of feet away from the tent entrance. Bakura had fed it a few twigs and sticks from the forest edge, and surrounded the border with stones for safety while Marik laid face-down in the tent entrance, book splayed out before his face and head propped on his hands.

Slightly annoyed but also curious, the white male made his way over and knelt down in front of the tent. Marik kept his eyes on the text, seemingly reading silently to himself as his lips formed words silently.

"What are you reading?" he asked finally and sat with his back to the small blaze, peering down at the book. It didn't look that old, but did seem to be well-worn. The paper was thick papyrus, and it was bound by black cord that was braided along the spine. It didn't appear to have a thick cover or binding, either, but Marik handled it gently as he turned to the next page over, reading the handwritten script slowly from line to line.

"It's about artefacts of the monarchy," he replied slowly and looked up once he had finished the page, expression placid. Bakura wondered if reading calmed him down.

"I wanted to learn more about the Millennium Ring. I know the basics, but this book is more complex."

Bakura paused and thought about that for a moment, brown eyes clicking their way over the papers. He noted, following the ink strokes, that the text was…strange.

"That's another language," he grunted. He couldn't make heads nor tails of it.

"Sanskrit," Marik replied and looked up again. "A few decades ago, the scholars who kept track of the monarchical records were from India. Everything is in hieroglyph, now, but as a tomb keeper, I had to learn both."

"Huh." Bakura snorted. That seemed useless. Finished with building the fire and able to feel the soreness in his legs from the day's trek, he laid down in the sand onto his back and stretched, tunic draping over his skinny legs and chest. He pushed his head backwards and looked at Marik upside-down.

"So what does it say, then?" Bakura wondered if he just had a natural curiosity about the items. He seemed to know a lot, already, but he supposed someone as young as Marik probably didn't know everything, despite being a tomb-keeper's son. He felt the metal against his stomach and held it in one hand, playing with the spikes there.

"Hn?" Marik looked up, distracted. Bakura sighed.

"How old are they? The Millennium Items…?"

"They were made in year three-thousand," the blond replied, surprisingly without sass or any particular tone. "On the millennium date. Fifteen years ago. The date of Pharaoh Atem's birth."

"…Intentionally?" The Millennium Items were tools of the monarchy, so it only made sense. Marik nodded and turned his nose back to his book, leaving Bakura seated by the light of the fire. The white male stood up after a few seconds and stretched his arms above his head, tunic filthy from the wet and bloody adventures he had had over the past day and a half. He smiled to himself slightly, however, eyeing his white palms in the flickering of the flame light.

Soon enough, he'd have the cleanest tunic he could get his hands on, and in silk, even, if he wished. Slowly, he paced his way around the fire before plopping down on the opposite side, laying splayed out on his back again in the mix of sand and earth. For some reason, the image of a familiar blond recurred in his mind, and he remembered the brown eyes that had stared at him through the musty iron bars.

Stupid guard. They hadn't even branded him. Now, there was absolutely no way for them to trace the beautiful gold piece against his breast back to himself or his partner-in-crime. It was fool proof. As soon as he could find someone who wanted it enough, someone who was desperate enough for a piece of the Pharaoh's lineage, he'd be rolling in more gold than he would ever know what to do with.

"Kul Elna burned, their blood was sacrificed…"

Bakura had thought he was drifting off until he heard hummed words. He opened one eye slowly, mind slightly foggy from the exhaustion of the journey. He snorted to himself, scooting over across the sand to plop down beside Marik. Was he already old enough to mishear? He watched the dusky lips moved as purple eyes trailed over the page.

"Ninety nine deaths, no assumed escapes."

"What are you talking about?" he sighed, exhaustion trickling in a burning sensation under his dark eyes. He glanced at Marik, who looked right back at him.

"Kul Elna was burned and the residents were sacrificed for the making of the Millennium Items," he replied, as if slightly annoyed to repeat himself. The light eyes turned back to the page. "Their blood was mixed in with the molten gold to meld the bond between the royal family and the forces of the afterlife."

"…" Bakura couldn't be hearing right. As if instantly, sounds and sights began to chew at the edges of his consciousness. The screams…

" _Mommy!"_

 _Bakura wasn't able to hear himself scream over the loud shrieks and cries that exploded out around him. The smoke burned in his throat as he huddled, gripping tightly to the edge of the mud brick wall with little, ashy hands. Another loud bang burst into his eardrums and he reached up, pressing his palms hard against his ears._

 _The heaving of deep coughs rattled his small form from the knees and through his gut, knocking him back against the wall, eyes squinted against the smoke and heat. The padding of hooves in unison faded at the edges of his focus._

" _M-Mommy…" He didn't understand. His tears burned, hot against his white cheeks as he shivered and pushed against the brick. She had told him to go, to run, right before the smoke had enveloped her and he had heard her deathly, high shriek. He had run, hiding behind shacks, scurrying at the sounds of shouts and hooves, but it was no good. He couldn't see. He couldn't find her._

 _Slowly, he sank down and wrapped his knees in his arms, chin dripping with fluid as his lips curled. Why? Why was this happening? Who was doing this? Where was his Mommy?_

 _He coughed again, little shoulders shuddering as he gasped for breath. Slowly, he managed to get to his feet, toes ashen in the sand. She had wanted him to go… So he turned and slowly made his way through the alley, down to the edge of the small village, sucking in breaths of air desperately as sobs began to wrack his chest and throat._

 _The sounds began to fade into the distance as he walked. He met the forest at its edge and continued, stumbling between tree trunks. He collapsed into the soil at the base of a eucalyptus, pressing his face into the dirt. He cried. And cried. He didn't understand._

Suddenly, the smooth metal felt blazing hot against his chest. Bakura sat up. Then stood up. He looked up at the sky, and then down to his feet. Again, he seated himself, reaching down, fingering the little charred leather band still tied tightly around one ankle. The hieroglyphs still stood out clearly through the wear and the dirt, displaying the engraved figures he had come to know so well.

"What's that say?" Bakura looked up quickly to see the curious expression. Marik, apparently, had followed his eyes and was also looking at his anklet. The pale man grit his teeth, slowly opening his mouth to hiss between them.

"My home village," he said lowly, voice grinding into a hiss. " _Kul Elna_."

"…" A momentary silence passed between them. Infuriatingly and suddenly, the golden lips turned up into a smile.

"Heh. You're kidding~"

"Try me." Pale fingers twitched, but somehow, Bakura managed not to throw his hands around Marik's throat. It was coming together, now…and suddenly, the pendant hanging around his chest felt heavy, as the heart in his chest had for so many years.

"This…thing." He reached up and pulled the cord from around his hair, thrusting the ring between them. Their faces reflected in the gold of the spikes, which swung with the force of the impact. "You're telling me this…this fucking _thing_ has my mother's blood in it."

This seemed to confuse him. The blond squinted, and then tilted his head, and then tilted it back to the other side, like a bird observing the movements of a bug on the ground. His lips pursed, and his shoulders raised in a shrug.

"I guess, maybe," he admitted, seeming to piece together what had already settled into Bakura's brain and body. "You must've been a baby."

"Four. That isn't important," Bakura spat in return, feeling the metal all but pulse in his hands with how hard he gripped it. He brought it back down to his lap, squeezing the ring in both palms.

"Tell me who did this. Right now."

Bakura pressed his teeth into his tongue as Marik looked back to the book. Pharaoh Atem's father? It had to be. If the items were made the year that Pharaoh Atem was born, it had to be someone else in that fucked up lineage of jewellery-wearing freaks!

"Hnn..."

"Who?!"

"The siege was ordered by Priest Seth on July eighteenth," the blond finally read off the page, looking up, meeting Bakura's eyes again with what looked like a startled expression.

"…" A wave of sickness surged in the back of Bakura's throat. His lips curled and he bore his teeth, drawing a sharp breath through his nose.

"Seth," he all but growled. "Seth…it was _him_."

"Hmm…"

A long silence passed between the two. Slowly, Marik dropped the book into the sand and slid his way up onto his backside, sitting Indian-style with one hand on each knee and rocking back and forth slowly like a doll. Bakura sat on his knees and stared at the ring in his hands. What was once cold metal now felt hot, burning, almost, but he clasped it in his white-blue knuckles even harder. This rage was all-consuming…The screams. His mother, her shrieks of pain…It was because of him.

He had been right in the fucker's _bedroom_ and he hadn't known well enough to strangle the bastard right then and there for parading around in a necklace with his mother's body fluids inside. That tall, skinny brunet bitch with the long hair and big blue eyes was wearing her around his neck…

"She…She can't pass on," he whispered suddenly, eyes dropping to his bruised knees. "She…Her…"

"Her blood wasn't drained into a canopic jar," the blond replied, echoing Bakura's thoughts with his slightly deeper voice. Bakura stared, taking slow breaths through his mouth. Right, the son of a tomb-keeper. This guy had to know everything about proper burials. Bakura himself had learned from others on the streets about the bare essentials that were needed for preparation of a body, so the spirit could pass onto the afterlife.

"...Seth," he hissed again in response, drawing breath in through his teeth. He caught Marik by the eye. Suddenly, a little smile spread its way across the dusky cheeks, and the violet eyes lightened, blazing in the sparkles of the flames.

"We could kill him," Marik gushed lowly, white teeth gleaming from beneath his dark lips. The voice was deep and full of mirth, and Bakura suddenly recalled the moment they had first locked eyes. The fear in Marik's gaze, the blood running down his cheeks and neck.

A keeper of the tomb… He glanced questioningly at the blond, and got the same white grin back in return.

"The Priesthood takes care of tomb-keeping duties," he sing-songed, voice gravelly yet lilting from high to low. "Seth's father picked my family to serve. Ehh-hee."

The gleam in the bright lavender sent chills down Bakura's spine. It was there again, that sense of danger. The instability he had seen before, when Marik had all but throttled him for his assumed involvement with the monarchy. The hate was there, clear in the light orbs, right at the surface, boiling off slickly like oil on the surface of water. Bakura could taste it again, the copper of blood and the tang of smoke right in the back of his throat. Like an infection, heat began to spread into his chest, surging through his heart, beating in his hands.

"…We'll kill Seth," he rasped out, a smirk pulling and twisting at the corners of his mouth. He bore his teeth slowly in a grin, hissing between breaths through his clamped jaw. Marik grinned back at him, eyes narrowed and lips wide in a broad smile to mirror his own.

"We'll slaughter him."

"Heh…" Bakura looked down at the gold in his hand, no longer seething with rage. His hands shook slightly as he thrust the thing into the air, holding it above their heads. He remembered the words from before, crystal clearly in his mind.

" _Power to kill…Power to control minds."_

They had it. They had power. The power to kill. They could get revenge on the monarchy for their families, once and for all. Somehow, just feeling the gold in his palm made him feel powerful beyond words.

"We'll rip his guts out!" Bakura shouted into the silent air, grin bursting wide enough along his cheeks to push his left eye into a squint. A golden hand grasped at the other edge of the ring and they both held it up into the sky, against the backdrop of the stars. Marik bounced where he sat, kicking a sprinkling of sand between their knees.

"We'll gouge his eyes out!"

"We'll roast him on a spit!"

"We'll fuck the corpse!"

"…" Bakura found himself upside down as he tumbled onto his back, feet thrust up into the air. His chest heaved with gasps and snickers, eyes closing entirely and hands gripping into the fabric over his flat stomach, tears beading under his lash line. Marik's melodic chuckles floated behind him as he collapsed onto his side, shaking and grinning with loud screams of laughter. His head fell onto Marik's hip and he felt the warm body fall beside him, the tan flesh shaking jubilantly at the base of his neck.

When their voices began to die down, their bodies relaxed and shifted over the sand, soft noises accompanied by frequent chuckles welling up from inside both skinny chests. They ended up side-by-side, Bakura's cheek pillowed on the hard collarbone. Their hands, still grasping the ring, rested between them and sat on Bakura's leg, motionless against his soft cloth of his shorts. The white and dark fingertips brushed together.

They laid like that together under the breeze until the moon rose above their heads. Suddenly, the breeze began to run over underneath their clothing, skimming over their legs and midsections with a cool prickle.

However, when they woke up the next morning, neither of them had bothered to move.

...

By the time the sun rose the next morning, both teenagers were long gone from their overnight hideout on the edge of town. They had ambled their way down towards the West-end, skimmed the perimeter of one of the local markets, and strolled innocently through the centre with the ends of their long sleeves gripped tightly in their hands.

Once far enough away from the bread stall, both of them let the hot honey buns fall into their palms and stuffed them eagerly into their faces, walking along through the similarly-dressed hordes of buyers and children. The air was hot and blew through their hair, leaving it wild and messy around their faces and shoulders. Marik snickered to himself and outstretched a hand as they walked, Bakura glancing at him quizzically.

"You're good~ Gimme some."

Bakura smirked slightly and finished his bun, reaching up the other sleeve and retrieving the stick of roasted pork cubes from under the cloth. He took another bun from up his sleeve and, realizing it was brown in colour, wrinkled his nose and shoved that between Marik's parted lips.

"Eat that instead," he replied and closed his jaws around the closest piece, gnawing eagerly at the fatty tissue. Marik seemed surprisingly satisfied with his snack and used his tongue to bring it into his mouth fully, chewing and chomping with fervour.

The white male eyed him curiously as they walked, watching as the blond produced a baked potato from up his sleeve once he had finished with the bread. "…You're not bad yourself," he admitted with a soft snort, catching his gaze.

"Mmph?"

"For someone who lived underground their whole life," he clarified, licking a piece of burnt skin from the tip of the skewer. "You're no thief." It took practice to become good at stealing things. He had been slightly concerned having a novice kid with him would cause them to get caught, but he was hungry and he didn't feel like catching more river animals.

"I've stolen lots of stuff," the blond replied around the potato skin. "When Father was asleep, I'd sneak into the kitchen and stock up. Hid it in my bedroom under the mattress. Only got soup, otherwise."

"Hmm."

Bakura knew he wasn't the only one to have had a shitty life. However, there was definitely a difference between raising yourself from a young age, and being raised by someone who was obviously kind of a psychopath. Perhaps Marik's weird behaviour shouldn't have come as such a surprise to him initially, but he seemed to function surprisingly well most of the time. Bakura supposed he wouldn't get along with someone who was straight-laced, anyways.

They found themselves ambling along on the edge of town, eating their lunches fervently. Bakura had finished his pork stick and was chewing on an ear of corn, while Marik, who seemed more interested in the corn than he had in the meat, was stuffing his face with a spinach pastry and watching his feet silently.

"…How are we gonna do this?" Bakura broke the silence eventually, tossing his stripped cob behind himself. "Getting in isn't easy. The Pharaoh's back, too. Security's going to be tight."

"Mmh," the blond replied and finished his last bite. "You did it before. You tell me."

Bakura rolled his eyes.

"It'll be harder to get two people in than one," he replied matter-of-factly, running his tongue over his teeth to dislodge a kernel. "I had to hop the back wall. They threw me out as soon as they saw me inside. I kind of stick out."

Marik chuckled and Bakura grunted. It was by sheer familiarity that most people in the village markets didn't bat an eye at him anymore. He was known for being the sick-looking weirdo among the kiosk owners; the consensus among them was that he was some kind of outcast, a corpse-white orphan disowned for his appearance who sometimes had a coin or two to spend on bread and meat. Thankfully, Bakura had become so skilled that most of his swipings went undetected, since he did pay when he could.

All that aside, however, he knew people in the palace would spot him from a mile away. To enter again successfully, he knew he would have to rely on not being seen by anybody.

"Why don't you go kill him for the both of us?" Bakura inquired and looked up flatly at his companion. "Just do something with your hair. Pretend to be a dishwashing boy, or something. You'd fit in."

"Heh." Marik grinned and glanced at him as they walked along. "Sure. That means I get the choice of how he dies."

"…" Bakura gritted his teeth. No fair. He wanted to see Seth's face in the midst of agony, too. Walking alongside the treeline, he turned to follow the path and looked upwards when the land began to spread out before them, wondering where they had ended up. Immediately, his white face went even paler and he froze, holding a hand out and stopping Marik in his tracks.

"Oi?"

"Shh." Bakura hissed and ducked behind the nearest tree, thanking the gods that the outskirts was so thick with forest. He eyed the small, brick structure with trepidation, breaths quickening in his throat. Marik had ducked beside him and was also looking, eyes round and head tilted in confusion.

"…What's that?"

"Palace holding cells," he bit out, recognizing the long grasses and the red brick exterior. They locked eyes as he gripped the trunk, all-too-aware of the metal against his chest again. He recalled the chilling words as if they were being spoken right into his ear.

" _Go on. I see you again, you're dead."_

"That's where they kept me after they threw me out of the palace," he admitted in a harsh whisper, looking up and narrowing his eyes. "They kept me there for a week. In a god damn cell."

"Ooh." Seeming to understand, Marik turned and looked back at the building. However, he just smiled and turned back to face him.

"Wanna go in?"

Bakura blanched. "Idiot," he coughed, voice still hoarse and quiet. "That asshole might throw us both in there if he sees us here!"

"Asshole?"

Marik looked at him like a curious kid, and Bakura sighed.

"Jono. The guard."

"Keheh~"

Horrifyingly, Marik walked out from behind the tree and all but pranced his way up to the back of the small building. Bakura growled out a curse and took off after him. Maybe partnering with such a sporadic guy hadn't been a good idea, after all.

"Are you crazy?!"

"Haha! C'mon!"

The blond circled his way to the front of the jail, Bakura keeping a good few yards backwards. Thankfully, there was no sign of any carriages and no sound to be heard besides the chirping of the birds in the nearby trees. Perhaps by the grace of the gods, they had merely gotten lucky and the guard from before wasn't in. Still cautious, he tiptoed his way up to the front door he had exited a mere two days prior, keeping an ear out on all sides as he readied himself to bolt at the slightest sign of anybody.

Marik seemed to listen at the door before gripping hold of the knob. Bakura tensed, ready to whisper-yell at him once more when the door was gently pulled open. The pale boy leapt backwards, gasping, watching silently when the blond head peeked inside. It turned one way, then the other way, before it was pulled back out. The broad grin sent Bakura's brain spiralling as Marik raised a finger to his lips.

"Shh."

Bakura couldn't help but be curious, so he leaned forward and peered in alongside him. The familiar entryway with the desk and chair, followed by a corridor with a few cells, presented itself in the dim light. A dusky digit pointed to the left and Bakura jerked back slightly, eyes falling upon a little cot he hadn't noticed before, sitting to the left of the desk. Laying atop the mattress were two bodies. The pale blue-white backside and lush breast caught his attention first, gaze moving upwards to differentiate the two persons- a lush female with long, white strands resting in the arm of the blond male who he recognized immediately. Both breathed slowly and silently, eyes closed to the world, and Bakura released a soft sigh between his teeth.

This was getting too weird.

"She looks like you," the blond pointed out softly in his ear. Bakura tensed and narrowed his eyes, swatting him away.

"I see that," he muttered back. As much as he tried to play it off, it was startling. Albinism was not common in Egypt, but he had heard that it was something that afflicted a few people. Bakura had never seen somebody who looked so similar to him before, and seeing that person nestled in the guard's arms was a little jarring.

"Well, what now?" he grunted in Marik's ear, staying close to the doorway. This had been his partner's idea, after all, though he suspected he didn't have much of a plan to speak of. Predictably, the darker male shrugged softly and looked back into the room, eyes moving around slowly as if he expected something.

Bakura had to resist the urge to snort. What was he looking for, food? They had just eaten. He wasn't sure he trusted Marik at the moment, but at least he seemed to know when to shut up. Moving backwards a pace, ready to make a break for it and get as far away from there was he could, he could only watch as his friend made a few steps in and approached the chair sitting beside the desk. Marik reached out, lifted something from the seat up onto his shoulder, and quickly made his way back out. Bakura backed away from the door and watched as Marik slowly pushed it shut, turning and sprinting off back towards the forest with something long blowing behind him.

Bakura sprang into a run and followed along, eager to leave the area he hadn't wanted to enter in the first place. Catching up, he staggered up behind the blond and bent down to place his hands on his knees, gasping for air, watching the other fiddle with the cloth draped around his neck.

"…What the hell is that?" he rasped and stood back up to full height, annoyed. "A dress?"

Marik turned his head to face him, holding out the long, red and brown robe with the beaded crimson sash around the waist and collar. It was clearly a women's garment, based on the length and the shape, as well as the dark red hood that draped around the neck and shoulders.

"Stunning," he spat, giving it one last glance before freezing. There, hanging alongside Marik's hand on the breast of the robe was a thin, gold badge attached with a pin. He skimmed the hieroglyphs quickly.

 _PALACE OF PHARAOH ATEM_

 _Custodial Services_

Bakura felt his head spin. That girl…He snatched the badge and turned it around, eyeing the line of text on the back.

' _Kisara'_

He looked up and caught Marik's grin with his stare of shock, swallowing audibly. Seriously…was this guy just that lucky? How had he known something useful would be in there?

"That's a ticket in for one of us," he replied with a sigh, reaching for the badge. Infuriatingly, the robe was snatched from his fingertips. Bakura looked up with narrowed eyes, annoyed to see the grin get wider.

"Heheh. You mean, for both of us," the blond replied, teeth beaming from behind his lips.

This couldn't be good.

...

"You're insane," Bakura groused, sitting cross-legged and holding the robe in his lap with both arms. They had found the river again and now both sat beside it, Bakura leaning against a tree as the blond busied himself by dunking his hands in the water. Marik looked back at him with a disgustingly happy expression, smoothing his wet hands over his hair, taming it into a longer, less-wild style.

"It's fool proof," he replied silkily, causing Bakura's eye to twitch. The idiot was enjoying this.

"You wear those, you'll get in no problem. They're royal clothes, after all."

"They're _women's_ clothes," Bakura hissed in response, baring his teeth. "You wear them!"

"Eh?" Marik looked back with his new weird hairstyle, eliciting a double-take from the pale man. "That's why they're perfect. You'll look just like that chick. They'll never know the difference!"

"Hngh." Bakura hated that he was right. He knew he couldn't go in as he was, looking white as a sheep but also completely uncovered. He had been caught before, after all. As much as he hated to parade around as a female, he was sure somebody would recognize him if he went without convincing coverage. The hood around the neck of the garment was helpful, too. For the first time, Bakura considered it fortunate that women in Egypt had to be modest. Her name was 'Kisara', so he supposed he had a good alias, too, just in case anybody asked him.

"What about you, then?"

"The badge," Marik hummed tunefully as he stripped his tunic from his chest, removing his shorts as well and dunking them carefully into the river. He squeezed and rubbed them with his fingers as he held them under the cool surface, gently moving his head back and forth as if to a song Bakura couldn't hear.

"I'll wear that. It took them a week to get my father his royal clothes. I think new hires stay in rags for a few days~"

"So what, you'll pretend to be one of the maid boys?" Slowly, the plan began to piece itself together in Bakura's mind. If he himself could find a way in, it was likely that others wouldn't bat an eye at him, due to the official royal robes in the appropriate palace colours. Likewise, Marik could probably enter through a more public entrance using the official name badge. If everything went as planned, they could meet one another and find Seth's room before all hell broke loose.

"Sure. I should steal a broom someplace," the blond replied, a smile evident in tone of his voice. Marik got to his feet and, startling Bakura with his sudden nudity, walked over to the tree with the lowest limb and hung his tunic and shorts out to dry, having scrubbed them clean. Bakura stood up and gently hung the robes beside them in kind.

"You tell me how you got in last time," Marik said softly, deeply, voice lowering an octave and trailing into a conspiratorial whisper. "We'll go there. You enter that way, I'll head in through a side entrance, and we'll meet up in the palace when one of us finds Seth's room."

Bakura found himself nodding. Suddenly, he became aware of the jingling metal under his shirt and he reached down, pulling the ring out from its hiding place.

"What about this?" he breathed, voice raspy and low as he echoed Marik's tone. "This thing. You said it has power. It can kill."

"Mhmm."

"…How do we use it?" That was the one question he had. He understood its history, how it was made, where it had come from, but if it really had the kind of power Marik had spoken about, why hadn't he seen any hint of it so far? Could it help them fulfil their plans? Could he use it to kill Seth himself, turn his own weapon right back into his girly face?

"Dunno," Marik sang back, smirking anyways. His eyes gleamed, however, and the smile on his face was so jubilant, so real, that Bakura couldn't help but smile in return.

"But let's get ready, Waterlily. I'm bored~"

~  
Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

**Bleeding Idiots**

 **Author:** **icypinkpop**

 **Pairing:** **Psychoshipping (Yami Marik x Yami Bakura)**

 **Warnings:** **Angst, gore, violence, graphic murder, implied sexuality/paedophilia.**

 **Author's note:** **This is a fanfiction work for my best friend, Julesie, who has long lamented the distinct lack of Psychoshipping fan work. I hope that I can give her something entertaining to read, that is based in canon and portrays her favourite characters in a suitable way. Ju, this is for you!**

 **...**

 **IV: Execution**

The two of them had gotten dressed before approaching the palace walls. Marik was in his usual tunic and shorts, with his hair combed downwards to frame his face, and the gleaming silver badge pinned to his breast. Bakura had to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that he looked the part. What with the tamed hair, freshly-cleaned clothes, and a pair of sandals they had swiped from the nearby marketplace, he did indeed look like a new servant boy, despite the freshly-replaced bandage still wrapped around the bronze throat.

Bakura turned his eyes down to himself as they hid behind the nearby tree, trying to hide his embarrassment. He was grateful that the dress had come with a sort of hood, and had wrapped it around his hair and draped it around the sides of his face. From the neck down, he certainly passed as a flat-chested woman, being somewhat petite and not quite as tall as his partner in crime. He could only hope that the white bangs that framed his face, as well as the hood, would hide his visage enough that nobody would even have a reason to question his identity.

It was somewhat fortunate that Bakura had explored the palace grounds somewhat during his previous attempt already, since he had recalled a side-entrance with a set of stone steps where a number of servants had been entering and exiting the palace grounds with baskets of clothing and food. He had led Marik through the forest and to the edge of the territory, where the large, brick wall and wooden gates of the servant entrance stood before them, and they were now waiting for any sign of entry or exit. A single guard, as expected, was standing beside the doors, spear in-hand.

Bakura had escaped over the wall before using the trees, but he had a feeling that was too risky to attempt with a partner. Therefore, the two of them had decided that Marik would enter through the side entrance whenever another servant happened to be exiting. They had toyed with the idea of both of them going through the servant entrance, but he had a feeling that two strangers attempting entry at once would rouse suspicion.

Behind him, the blond held a broom and grinned in anticipation. Bakura snorted. Leave it to this guy to be enjoying himself. He just hoped their garb was enough to be convincing.

Since it seemed too risky to enter together, Bakura would wait for Marik to get in successfully before scaling the nearest tree and making his way over the wall, as he had before. Whichever of them happened to find Seth's room first was intended to find the other and alert them, somehow. However, Bakura had the sneaking feeling that this was a competition. Whoever found Seth first got to be the one to do the killing, and like hell was he going to sit back and let Marik have all the fun.

The squeak of the gate brought Bakura back to reality and he peered out from behind the trunk. Two servant women, one with long, black braids and one with a ruddy, red-orange coloured short hairstyle were leaving through the gate with two woven reed baskets containing what looked like clothing. The guard, dressed in those familiar brown and red robes, nodded to them as they passed by and out through the walls. The two made their way down the path, a few feet away from the duo's hiding spot. Bakura glanced silently back at the blond, who, smirking slightly and winking at him in return, stepped out from behind the tree and passed the two women on his way up to the gate.

Bakura's breath caught and held in his throat as he watched his cohort walk, broom in hand, up to the gate about a hundred feet away. He watched frozen as the guard leaned forward, seemingly eyeing Marik's chest as the teen stopped beside him. The exchange was a bit too far to completely understand, but he watched as the man leaned back and extended an arm, pushing the gate open for him and gesturing for him to go through.

The tenseness melted from Bakura's muscles as Marik made his way through the gate and in through the palace walls, the gate closing in behind him. Whatever he had said, the guard had been convinced. He supposed he did have to give Marik some credit for his foresight in picking up the robes; not only had it given one of them a potentially believable disguise, but it had allowed the other some legitimate palace identification.

Now, it was time for the hard part. Bakura turned away from the staff gate and made his way back into the woods, approaching the tree where he recalled making his first leap. He scaled it and moved up into the foliage, peering out over the surrounding area. The last time, there had been no guards to speak of, but he had a feeling extra measures had been taken this time.

Slowly, he moved from tree to tree. He had only made his previous entry a little over a week before, after all, so he recalled the route he had taken. Quietly, he began to make his way from limb to limb, hiding himself as best he could in the foliage as he carefully selected taller and taller trees, making his way up higher and higher off the ground. He found himself thankful that the palace had been built on the edge of the eastern woods; likely for convenient access to the river nearby.

At one point, the tree closest was too distant from Bakura to be feasible for easy branch-to-branch leaping. Teeth biting into his lip in concentration, the pale man slowly leaned forward, hooking one foot around the trunk of his current tree and leaning forwards. Then, quickly, he all but fell dead-fast and wrapped his arms around the trunk when his chest plummeted into the wood, arms scrambling and hooking around the branch that stuck out left and towards the back. His knees hit the trunk as well and he scrambled up, breathing heavily and hiding again amongst the leaves.

Marik had gotten the easy entry plan.

Snorting, he made his way slowly from tree to tree up to the edge of the tall palace wall. He eyed the mud-brick from between the limbs, peering out, just able to see over the top to the large, pyramidal clay roofs on each section of the Pharaoh's elaborate home. Smirking, he stood on his toes on one branch and grabbed onto the edge of the wall.

And hissed in pain, snatching his hand back to himself with a growl.

"Fuck!"

He stared at the blood trickling down his palm and slowly leaned forward away from the trunk, standing on his toes and spotting a coil of spiked wire laying along the top of the wall.

Ah, so these were those extra "precautions" that messenger had been telling Jono about. Sulking, he shoved his hand inside the red robes to staunch the bleeding. At least the clothes were crimson red.

With his good hand, balancing the best he could, he gently picked the coil wire up between two of its bladelike thorns. He dragged it along, surprised by the lightness of it, until it slowly toppled over the edge of the brick. Quickly, he hopped backwards and hugged the trunk of the tree, hearing it crash and rustle into the bushes below. A few birds squawked and flew out from around the nearby area, so he held his breath and waited a few minutes before peering over the top again. His brown eyes looked down into the familiar courtyard, and he sighed.

This was going to be fun with a gored hand.

Bakura grit his teeth again and struggled his way up the wall from the extended branch. He hoisted his rump up onto the rough brick surface and, making sure nobody was in sight, held his breath and fell.

The ten or so feet were painful enough as he toppled side-first into a bush along the wall's inside edge. These next few minutes were critical. On edge and wary, he quickly rolled himself up and righted his robes, eyes flicking over to the kitchen window he had used before. The boards nailed across it confirmed his fears. They had realized it was a possible entry-point…He'd have to find another way.

A slow walk around the back end of the palace brought him to a dark wood side-door, with hieroglyph detailing splayed over the clay brick over the top end. Bakura read it in surprise.

'Storeroom'

He tried the knob. The door released a slow, sweet creak, and Bakura exhaled with success, walking up the few steps and entering the palace. He shut the door behind him, letting his eyes adjust to the surroundings.

Bakura had campaigned for a night-time invasion, but he had to hand it to Marik for convincing him to go with a day break-in instead. Light poured in through the windows, making things easy to see, and there would surely be more people around, meaning less likelihood of sticking out like a sore thumb.

He appeared to be, indeed, inside some kind of storage room. Boxes and baskets were stacked on three of the walls, with the fourth wall containing some large, concrete shelving units where crates of who-knew-what were seated. A few boxes labelled 'SALT' and 'STOCK' were visible on the tops of the pile in the corner, right beside- Bakura licked his lips when he saw the laundry cart.

He couldn't stop a smirk. How ironic. This 'Kisara' was in the custodial sector, though, so he supposed having any janitorial item with him would be a good idea, even though Marik was the one with the badge. It was possible that somebody would recognize his white hair and robes, and expect him to be carrying out the duties that she typically would have.

Gripping each of the handles, he gently pushed the laundry cart up to the next door and, taking a breath, opened it and gazed out.

The warmth of the surrounding air, heated by royal bodies and the bustling action, presumably, gave Bakura momentary pause. He stared out upon the central room of the palace. It was huge, spanning hundreds of feet in every direction. First, he noticed a large, stone fountain stood in the middle, running and pouring with torrents of spraying water. Potted plants with long vines draped from the ceiling along each corridor and around the central chamber, rich-coloured flowers hanging like sweet fruit as far as the eye could see, surrounding open windows and sprawling above lavish couches and soft seats. Along the corridors at each edge, several persons, some in basic brown clothing and others in the typical red and brown robes, walked with dishes, clothing, or cleaning implements in their arms. Light poured in through the rectangular skylight at the centre of the rooftop, and the soft bustle of chatting between friends echoed pleasingly through the palace interior. Bakura released a breath.

Why a scumbag like Priest Seth and his lineage got to partake of such riches and comfort, he couldn't understand. The gods could kiss his ass.

A girl with short, black hair passed right in front of Bakura holding three fat rolls of cheesecloth in her arms, startling him out of his thoughts. Slowly, warily, he followed along with the laundry cart a couple of feet in front of him, wheeling it over the red and gold woven rugs that splayed themselves across the mud and tile floors. His hand protested slightly against the cold metal, but at least the blood seemed to have dried.

The magnitude of the situation began to set in when the girl in front of him took a detour to the left, heading down one of the many corridors along the sides of the walls. Not wanting to attract attention, Bakura continued onwards and took the next hallway a few feet down.

He had no idea where the hell he was going, or where Marik could be by now. He considered trying to find the staff entrance from within, but somehow, he had a feeling his blond friend hadn't waited for him. It was time to get down to business.

Bakura continued down the quiet corridor, avoiding the plants and side tables on either edge, when a sudden feel of blazing hot metal pulsed against his abdomen, as if he had been shocked. Startled, he tripped over the edge of a rug and staggered to lean against the brick wall, reaching down, pulling open the collar of his robes and gazing through it down to his chest. His eyes dilated. The Millennium Ring, dangling underneath the many layers of cloth, glowed a gentle yellow against his white flesh. Jaw terse, he looked both ways to make sure nobody was coming down that way before glancing back at it. What the hell?

One spike dangling from the base of the ring had moved up, and was sticking horizontally in the direction of the hall, protruding slightly in the robes.

"…" This was unreal. Bakura had stolen this thing initially for a quick buck, and then listened to Marik preach about its dark powers. He hadn't really believed that much, honestly; despite believing, as everyone did, in the afterlife and the powers of the various gods, mystical items were often a thing of legend… Weren't they?

He turned around to the unexpected sight of a long-haired girl in braids walking down the corridor, and quickly pulled his robes up against himself, hiding any sign of what was going on beneath them. The girl moved alongside him, paused, and horrifyingly enough, stopped a few feet in front of Bakura, looking at him quizzically.

Swallowing, Bakura stared back for a moment before closing his eyes, giving a short, traditional bow of acknowledgement and standing back up.

The girl watched him with dark green eyes for a moment. Slowly, however, she narrowed her eyes and held a hand to her lips. Coughing lightly, she muttered under her breath.

"Slut."

And then she took off as she had before, walking down the hall and then taking another corridor that forked off to the left. Bakura stood there silently, trying to process what had just happened.

…Maybe the Kisara girl wasn't liked among the other women. Snorting to himself, he reached down and felt the spike that continually pointed down the corridor, licking his teeth thoughtfully.

Well, he didn't see a reason not to follow.

Leaving the cart at the side, he made his way off down the hall, deliberately avoiding the left fork where the servant girl had disappeared. He continued for a few minutes, feet bare under the floor-length robes and toes feeling the softness of the carpet over the mud floors.

Then, a head popped out of nowhere and he had to struggle not to trip over his own feet.

"Miss me?" Marik asked, peering out from around one of the corners leading off into another hallway. His lips were turned into a smirk, and his eyes lidded slowly as Bakura watched him, pale mouth open in disbelief.

"Heheh. You're gonna love this."

"…" The tension melted from Bakura's shoulders as he ran quickly up to his partner. "Where were you?!" he grunted in slight annoyance, keeping an ear out behind him for possible other workers. He supposed it was fortunate they had run into each other at all, but still.

"You got in the easy way. Look at my fucking hand," he spat, holding out his gored palm and freezing when he remembered. Marik looked at his hand, and then up at him quizzically.

"…Look at this, too," he repeated and yanked the collar of his robes forward, leaning close to Marik and shifting his shoulders close so the other could see down the front of his robes to the Ring, whose central spike still glowed and pointed to the right, this time. Marik brought his face close and peered down.

"…Nice cock." Bakura reached up and slapped him immediately across the face, other hand yanking the ring up and outside of the robes.

"This, you idiot!"

Pale eyes widened. Slowly, the smirk returned to Marik's face, Bakura's friend eyeing the direction in which the spike was gesturing.

"It's right, y'know," he commented, reaching behind his back and pulling something out. Gold gleamed suddenly in the brown eyes. Something…

A gold staff with an eye in the centre, identical to the eye of the ring, shone back at him in the dim light. Two wings of metal spread from each end of the ball, sharply gleaming.

"By the way. I have one to match."

Bakura stared, gaping.

"…Where the fuck did you find that?!"

"Some empty room," Marik hummed back at him smugly. "C'mon."

Without prelude, Bakura felt his hand snatched. He burst into a startled run as Marik pulled his arm, yanking him down the hallway to the right and speeding off to wherever the hell he had in mind. He staggered in his robes to keep up, breathing heavily and following behind the taller male. Suddenly, Marik tugged his arm and made a sharp turn to the left at the end of the corridor, sending Bakura tripping and staggering for balance when the blond stopped before a single, closed door.

"Fu-!" A dark hand clamped over his mouth and he exhaled sharply, brown eyes flicking upwards and glaring in the jubilant golden face. Slowly, Bakura looked back in front of them, eyeing the door, moving his gaze up above where the hieroglyphs ran in a straight line over the top.

 _Priest Seth_

Behind the golden fingers, Bakura's mouth burst into a toothy grin. The hand left, and he and Marik smiled broadly at one another, both breathing heavily through their teeth. This was it.

He spared a glance down at the ring, surprised to see the previously glowing spikes were hanging down again, without any emanating light to be seen. It was as if it knew who they were searching for, and wanted to bring them to him.

"…How do we get in?" the white male asked softly, stealing another glance backwards over his shoulder to confirm the coast was clear. Still smiling, Marik reached under his tunic and into the waistband of his shorts, wrapping his fingers around something.

The knife gleamed in the low light as it was revealed, a thick blade and a gold-rimmed handle. Bakura blinked, actually startled and looking at him questioningly, watching as the rod was hidden seemingly inside where the knife had been before. Marik was a fucking toolkit, apparently.

"I'm a kitchen boy," he replied with a snicker and dropped to his knees, moving the tip of the knife to the handle and, after trying it and finding it locked, as expected, began to work the sharp edge into the space where the locking mechanism met the doorframe.

Bakura stayed on his feet and stood in front of Marik, keeping guard. He snorted under his breath, the joke suddenly making more sense to him.

"I thought you were an errand boy," he whispered back at him over his shoulder, eyes dark and flicking down each hall to assure the coast was clear.

"I can be both." The lock clicked a little as Marik messed with it.

"I bet your food tastes like shit."

"Ehh? Rude."

"You don't eat meat. I've noticed."

Marik actually laughed a little at that, still working the lock. Bakura opened his mouth to stay something else when he heard the slow creak of a door, turning around, catching the proud and sneaky expression.

"I'm good for other things," he sing-songed softly back and got to his feet. Immediately, Bakura leaned in, both of them peering through the crack.

Simultaneously, the slow padding of footsteps began to echo down the hall from behind them. Hair standing at the back of his neck, Bakura reached out and planted his hands onto Marik's back, pushing hard. They both staggered in through the open door and the white male turned and shut it quietly behind them, eyes large as he turned around.

The familiar room with the blue bedspread came into view, sending a shiver up Bakura's spine. He heard the footsteps outside the door approaching, and then fading off into the distance, bring a slow, warm sense of ease down through his neck and back. This was it.

"…Where is the bitch?" he whispered to himself, glancing over to his friend. Marik looked like he was about to laugh and shrugged.

Well, they had gotten this far, at least. Bakura wondered why the ring wasn't being more helpful, and pointing them in the right direction. A few seconds later, however, the gentle slosh of water brought both of their faces to the small door at the other end of the room. It hit Bakura immediately.

"He's bathing," he murmured in realization. Marik tilted his head.

"Or pissing."

Bakura snorted. They had come to the conclusion that Bakura could have the first shot, and that Marik would help with the restraint part. The two crept in unison up to either side of the door. Eyeing the blade in Marik's hand, Bakura reached out, looking at his friend insistently. The blond pouted, but handed it over anyway, sliding the thick handle into the outstretched white fingers.

"You hold him down," Bakura reminded and stood silently. The quiet spread between them, room completely still, the only sound their soft breaths and the gentle sounds of moving water from behind the bathroom door.

It occurred to him, in these few minutes, the fortune of their adventure together. His own release from jail had been startling enough, let alone learning he had bagged a royal artefact with confirmed mystical powers. Meeting Marik, also, had been a stroke of surprising luck. The two of them had more than enough good reasons to want Seth dead, or rather, to suffer horribly. His blond cohort was obviously a little unstable, but he had been surprisingly useful in both the planning and execution departments, probably skills that came from learning how to stay semi-sane in the darkness of a dungeon one's entire life. Still, Bakura couldn't help but think there was more to their friendship, to what was between them…Somehow, Marik seemed like the perfect partner. Partner in crime, and partner in everything else they had experienced together.

The door opened, and both of them leaped at once.

"YAHHHHHHHHH!"

A deafening shriek echoed loudly throughout the room as the pile of hair and cloth toppled its way to the soft white carpet. Bakura held fast to the wet and moist shoulder, bumping forearms with his bronze partner as he finally got the eye-to-eye stare into Seth's prissy, rich visage. His lips twisted into a maniacal grin, teeth gleaming as he gazed into the face of terror.

Seth looked up at him, naked and barely still wrapped in the white towel that now hung around one thigh. The flesh, golden but tender in a way it seemed almost blue, beamed up at him hairlessly, except for the startled and red face surrounded by long brown locks. Bangs fell softly over the large blue eyes, kohl-free, it seemed. Except for his last break-in, Bakura had never seen Seth except from an immense distance, over crowds, on the balcony of the palace during stupid speeches he couldn't hear.

Now, this creature was shivering and silent beneath him, and he loved every second of it.

"Not so tough now," he hissed, fingers tensing around the handle of the blade. Slowly, he flicked a glance up at the blond, who already stared back at him with narrowed eyes and a little nod.

Bakura looked back down, free hand clasping around the ring hanging from around his neck. At this moment, he watched as Seth begin kick and struggle underneath them both, thrashing hard but unable to move their knees and Marik's two hands.

"Missing this?!" he growled out lowly, dangling the jewellery above Seth's terrified gaze. That gaze flashed in what looked like acknowledgement, and Bakura was slightly proud, if not further enraged, to see that Seth did, in fact, remember who he was.

"You," he continued, wincing suddenly.

"HELP!"

He slapped his hand, previously on the ring, over the pale mouth, holding it there.

"This," he snarled, leaning down, keeping his legs still with his weight. "You burned my village. My mother."

"Mmmph!"

"Heehee~" Marik giggled at the sight of the thrashing arms, turning Bakura's look of rage up into a grin.

This was it. His whole life, he had been forgotten, forced to live on the scrap of society. His mother, his entire village had burned to the ground, and for some shitty piece of jewellery that this asshole paraded around on his skinny chest. All those nights of hunger, the lice itching at his scalp, the burning in his eyes, the smoke in his throat…All because of this man, and he was about to take him out for good.

"You'll be sorry," Bakura hissed and tore the hand off Seth's mouth, catching the startled glance firmly in his own. Slowly, he raised the blade up over the thrashing head. He had considered this, envisioned it in his mind. Initially, he had wanted to draw this out, make it torturous, painful. He had a feeling Marik would enjoy it more that way, too. However, the look of those prim blue eyes, the soft lips, the stupid, vulnerable little pale hands and thin fingers that thrashed around…Pure evil in delicacy. This man had probably never felt the touch of dirt under his fingernails, and yet he had the gall to spill so much blood…

This was the moment he had been waiting for, and his patience was running thin. Bakura wanted it over, now.

~  
Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

**Bleeding Idiots**

 **Author:** **icypinkpop**

 **Pairing:** **Psychoshipping (Yami Marik x Yami Bakura)**

 **Warnings:** **Angst, gore, violence, graphic murder, implied sexuality/paedophilia.**

 **Author's note:** **This is a fanfiction work for my best friend, Julesie, who has long lamented the distinct lack of Psychoshipping fan work. I hope that I can give her something entertaining to read, that is based in canon and portrays her favourite characters in a suitable way. Ju, this is for you!**

 **...**

 **V: Fall**

"Any final words?" he purred over the flushed brunet, brown eyes gazing downwards. The blue eyes, wide with terror, narrowed slowly. Bakura couldn't help but feel surprised when the soft lips parted, pursing, and something wet smacked into the side of his face.

"Filthy animals," Seth breathed in a low whisper, raising his nose upwards in his position on the floor and gazing down at the white male with a pointed glare.

"You peasants deserved it."

Something snapped inside Bakura like a rubber band, and he thrust the blade up high, free hand tightening hard around the olive throat.

"SAY GOODNIGHT TO RA!"

With one thrust, the blade buried itself swiftly into Seth's chest. A long leg kicked up between the two, blood welling up immediately from the wound, soaking the white terrycloth of the towel and spraying over the two pairs of arms. Bakura's smile widened, only to falter when-

WHAM

The room shook. Startled, he turned quickly in the direction of the door. It was wide-open, and, horrifyingly, a familiar star of red and gold faced the three men.

"Seth...?"

Pharaoh Atem stood in the hall, shocking Bakura beyond words or movement. Bakura sat, frozen, as the man took a couple of steps inside, barely aware of the gargling and whimpered cries spilling from the weakening Priest beneath him. As well-aware as he was of the Pharaoh, Bakura had certainly never seen him up close. Red eyes gazed back from under the gold crown that wrapped around his head, eyes lined with rich, dark kohl and traditional gold bangles around his neck and forearms gleaming in the low light of the room.

Fuck.

They were so screwed.

"Nnh…"

Before Bakura could take his partner by the wrist and try to make a run for it, another movement caught his eye behind the startled Pharaoh. Mostly hidden behind the royal form was a shorter person, one whose likeness caused Bakura to tense a little further. Short, blond hair framed the little round face, and purple eyes he recognized peered out underneath familiar fringe. The little bronze hands were clinging to the Pharaoh's upper arm, and the boy appeared to be mostly naked, clothed in what looked like a little brown hip sash and peppered with dark, purple bites over his neck and shoulders. His fear was obvious.

"Shh," Atem replied to the whining without taking his eyes off the two, holding an arm in front of the little male and reaching behind himself with his other hand. This was it. Realizing he was probably reaching for a weapon, Bakura swiftly shifted on his heels and turned to grab his partner by the shoulder, startled by the look on his face.

Marik was staring at the little one. The face, usually overtaken by an expression of boredness or smugness, conveyed wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock. Bakura chanced a look back at the little boy, who gazed back similarly, as if with recognition.

There wasn't any mistaking it…

"… _You._ "

The next few moments were a blur of screams and flashing metal. Searing pain cut across Bakura's palm as the knife was wrenched from his grasp. Blood dripped hotly across the white flesh as Marik lunged at the Pharaoh, knife in hand above his head and tall form forcing the royal back against the doorframe. The vague sounds of sputtering and choking from below had ceased, only to be replaced by the low shouts and vicious snarls from the two that shoved and struggled against one another in the hall.

Bakura forced himself to his feet. Unaware of where the kid had gone, he grit his teeth. Shit, shit! What the fuck did he do now?!

He could run. He could push past the two fighting and make his way outside, never to be seen again. In any other day in his life, at any other time, that option would have won out by a landslide. He looked up at Marik quickly, startled by the wide-eyed, emotional horror he saw in the bronze cheeks and eyes, and how the dark arm shook with knife in hand, trying to overcome the Pharaoh's grip on his wrist.

There was just one problem with that now…

The sound of footsteps tromped their way up the corridor. He turned fast, suddenly eye-to-eye with a familiar person in brown and red, messy blond hair falling over the shocked brown eyes. Jono took in the scene for a moment, obviously rattled, before reaching a hand down towards his belt.

No. It couldn't end like this.

"…Nngh!" Bakura ran. He jumped to his feet and leapt the few feet forwards, knocking his full weight into the startled guard, sending him collapsing to the carpet. In the same breath, he snatched Marik by the wrist and yanked, knocking the taller male off his balance.

Their eyes locked. For a split second, Bakura recalled the very first time their gazes had met. The terror seeped from Marik's eyes in hot streams, rage and sadness overtaking his tense face, and Bakura yanked again.

"NOW!"

They turned the corner and trampled their way into the hall, knocking into a laundry cart, Bakura dragging the taller male behind him. His toes caught on the edges of the rugs as he pulled him along, tripping, trying to retain his balance on two feet. They made their way to the hall's end and Marik stopped, resisting the pulling, jerking backwards. Bakura spun around in desperation.

"We need to go!"

"Malik!" Marik cried in response, face blazing wet with tears. Bakura shivered.

"My brother!" he wailed. "They turned him into a fucking concubine!"

That… _oh._

The clattering of sandals rang in his ears, and Bakura reached down, wrenched the knife from Marik's hand, and spun to face it. Eye-to-eye with another guard he didn't recognize this time, he bent at the waist and thrust the blade into the covered belly, watching as the man stumbled, scream echoing through the hall.

"There's no time!" he hissed and turned back to his cohort, staring into the large, vulnerable eyes. As a shaky hand worked on his ankle.

"We're going!"

He took off again, still holding Marik by the wrist and the knife in his other palm.

The two stumbled over the rugs as they made their way out, Bakura leading Marik back towards the storeroom through which he had entered. A young girl walked in front of them from the other direction, shrieking as Bakura knocked her to the side with his elbow.

He thrust the door open, aware of the many pairs of startled eyes gazing at them from the main room, and dragged Marik through the door and into the back garden where he had fallen over the wall earlier. Again, the blond seemed to falter, but the pale teenager insisted with a hard tug of the arm and forced Marik to sprint with him up to the gate, shoving his weight up against it and thrusting it open just enough to squeeze through.

They took off down the path, unaware of whether they were still being followed. Bakura wasn't sure where he was taking them, but he did have one goal in mind: Get as far away from the palace as possible, no matter what the cost.

This wasn't like last time, where he had been a stupid kid who had broken into the palace for kicks. This was murder, assault of a guard, assault of…the Pharaoh himself. There would be no forgiveness, not this time.

The fact that they had gotten out at all seemed like a miracle, but he knew it wouldn't last.

So they ran. The feel of warm blood passed between their fingertips. It occurred to Bakura that he didn't know where Marik was hurt, if anywhere, but his own hand gushed with blood from gripping the knife by its blade. Still, he ran, pulling his partner behind him, heading for the sun that was beginning to set over the horizon. He ducked in through the tree line, darting through the woods.

Bakura had thought he had nothing to lose. His entire life had been meaningless, a never-ending cascade of hunger, heatstroke, sleepless nights. Dry eyes, tired feet, cracking palms and heels. Misery. That had been his life, and to Bakura, it had been worthless, if not for the prospect of a thrill.

His lungs heaved and he stumbled, slowing his pace, weak body unable to keep up with the strenuous physical demands of sprinting. Collapsing, he kept hold of the warm wrist and slumped against the nearest tree, sucking in a few gasps of air, eyes sliding shut.

Until now, his life really had been meaningless.

Fingers twitched in his grasp, and he turned his head. His white hair spilled out from the hood of the robes, long since having fallen around his neck, as he looked at his partner silently.

The light eyes gazed back into his dark ones tiredly, and Bakura realized what had overtaken him back in the palace. He had had to escape, had to get out, because his life had meaning now. Meaning in the shape of a blond whose life had been as miserable as his own, but who still had shared in his misery with a grin.

"Idiot," he muttered and reached out, catching Marik's startled face in his bloody hands and leaning forwards.

Their lips were both chapped as hell, but the kiss was soft nonetheless. The two of them slid down to the base of the tree and sat, Marik leaning against the trunk with one arm around Bakura, who sat folded against his chest with one hand in the blond hair. In contrast to the loudness of the palace environment a few minutes prior, the silence surrounded them like a blanket, broken only by the soft chirps of birds and rushes of wind through the tops of the trees.

Bakura smoothed his tongue along the front of Marik's teeth and pulled away for a breath. The hot air moved between them and he groaned softly, not even having the energy to be embarrassed.

This was the meaning he had never had.

"…My brother." He looked up at Marik, catching the sadness and disappointment in the light gaze. The melancholy began to push against Bakura's heart, enveloping it in a cold sheath. He had felt it. The sadness of losing a family member to the monarchy, the senseless use of somebody he had loved.

"Next time we break in, we'll rescue him," he muttered wryly, leaning back and resting against the tree a couple feet away. Marik looked at him curiously, and Bakura sent him a small smirk. Next time. Yeah, right. If only they had all the time they wanted.

If only they had all the blood in the world.

"…" Marik smiled a little in return and tilted his head, peering out past their current resting spot in interest. Bakura recognized the look and glanced aside, spotting the light that emanated through the trees. Slowly, he got to his feet and, sending Marik a momentary look, turned and walked through the final layer of brush, startled and squinting when he came to the edge of the treeline.

The light poured into his eyes, and he held a hand over his forehead to shield them, observing his surroundings. The earth beneath him, coated in grass, came to an edge about twenty feet away, a sharp point that sloped up somewhat from his current height. Curiosity getting the best of him, he toed his way to the edge and looked down, down…into the crack in the earth, down the edge of the cliff, to the rushing water that rushed in straight lines at least a hundred feet beneath.

"'s that?"

Bakura stood back up and walked back to Marik, who stood in the centre of the open patch with a curious look.

"A drop off," he replied softly, pausing, looking up into the staring face. Marik bowed his head slightly, as if in acknowledgement, and the soft whoosh of the breeze between them carried with it the slow, rhythmic thumping of what could only be hooves in the distance.

Moving up beside his partner, Bakura stopped and turned to face the woods, stomach tensing up at the realization. It wasn't really anything of a shock. They were two raggedy-haired kids, bony and draped in stolen clothes, against the forces of the entire palace. Winning hadn't really been a possibility in his head, not after what had happened.

The carriage slowly came through along the dirt path leading out of the forest. Bakura recalled the large, wooden wheels, the tromping of hooves over the sands that he had observed for the first time a day earlier, when camping out north of the city near the smugglers' tents. The four horses, variations of grey and brown in colour, trotted their way out into the clearing, surrounded on each side by four familiarly-dressed guards. They stopped about twenty feet from the couple, snorting and swishing their tails.

The most startling sight was easily the individual in seated in the carriage at the front. With a dignified shift, Pharaoh Atem himself slipped off his cushioned seat and stood alongside the guards. Bakura noted internally that Jono wasn't among them, and wondered whether he had been punished for his failure. He smirked a little, heart beating a little quickly under his robes. While he couldn't say he was unafraid, the thought of how far they had come brought him a little joy.

"You two," the Pharaoh called in a deep voice, starling in its volume.

"You are charged with the murder of Priest Seth."

Pride shot up Bakura's spine immediately, warming his face into a slow grin. If nothing else, they had succeeded in their goal. That human-burning bastard could burn in hell, for all he cared.

"…" He took a moment to look at the Pharaoh. It was kind of a shock that he had come personally to deal with them. Perhaps he had gotten the best look at them, and had been the most suited to determine their location and follow them there. However, he had a feeling this came down to power. Pharaoh Atem was the all-powerful, the all-controlling. He had controlled Bakura's life-or-death verdict from hundreds of miles away while Bakura rotted away in a cell, but Atem probably preferred to exercise his omnipotence face to face. The force in his voice and pride in his posture was substantial.

"You have been sentenced to execution for your crimes," he continued, glancing at the lines of guards at the sides of the carriage. Immediately, each man drew his bow and arrows and poised them at the ready.

"You have a moment to speak."

Bakura didn't want to. In his last moments on earth, despite years of pining and fantasizing about the calmness and darkness of death, he couldn't think of a thing he wanted to do or say. Slowly, he raised his eyes up to Marik, gazing into the confused, slightly-frowning face. Up until these past few days, Bakura had had nothing to live for.

"Thirty seconds."

Marik's eyes narrowed and his face twitched, and realization came down on Bakura like a gush of cold rain. Bakura had nothing to live for except Marik, but Marik had someone else to keep fighting for…

"Malik," the blond murmured and looked slowly back up to the Pharaoh and his guards. Bakura felt his heart skip a beat, watching the passion gleam in his eyes, the deep sadness. It was as if he could feel the pain running along his own arms and up through the backs of his eyes, causing his own to tingle. The cliff stood tall behind them, offering the sweet, cold release of rushing water that could bring them out of this cruel world together…

But Marik wasn't ready to go.

"Speak your peace."

"My brother!" Marik shouted suddenly, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Atem stared back, actually looking a little surprised.

"Let him go! He isn't your toy!"

Bakura reached out and held tight to Marik's upper arm. Slowly, the blond turned to face him, eyes wet and flashing. The two shared a long look, both breathless, both with tears welling at the corners of their eyelashes.

Bakura was ready to go, but he knew Marik had something else to live for.

Atem broke the silence with a sigh, and raised a hand slowly into the air, making a fist. On cue, each guard took a step forward and pointed their arrow heads directly towards the two as the Pharaoh slid back up into his carriage seat.

"May your hearts weigh light against Ma'at's feather," he called, and the next word was even clearer.

"Fire."

The arrows cut through the air with a sharp cry.

Marik lunged. Purely out of instinct, Bakura dove instantly for the ground, covering his head with both hands, as the loudest, most agonizing scream rang out in his ears. He chanced a look and, feeling no pain, shoved himself up to his hands and knees and spared a glance backwards. He wished he hadn't, sick bubbling up in his throat as he saw his lover collapsed on his back, several arrows piercing his chest and neck and blood pouring from him like a broken pipe.

Bakura turned away. Tears gushed from his cheeks as he staggered up, vaguely aware of another similar command from Atem. Desperately, he clawed at his own chest and grabbed hold of the ring, touching it, seeking that warmth he had come to know, a mere spark or jolt, or something to remind him of the golden hands and how they had brushed against his fingertips just the night before.

"We will remove it from your corpse," Atem called through the buzzing in his ears, and he heard the guards take another step.

"Fire."

He turned and bolted. He could hear that final scream, echoing over and over again in his ears, as he ran fast for the precipice. The arrows shrieked through the air again and, scrambling to the edge on bare heels, he leapt, still clutching the ring tight in his skinny fingers.

His eyes closed, and he felt his head swing around and downwards as he dropped, aware he was falling head-first. The air around him cooled, slicking along his body like water. Over and over, the scream echoed in his ears, and he knew the pain of a thousand arrows. His heart cried, beating loudly through his skull, bile at the back of his tongue. He had had nothing to live for, nothing but a thrill…

And again, he had nothing.

...

"…Nnh!"

Sharp pricks ran up and down his arms. The skinny body jerked, and he all but thrust himself up into a sitting position. A slow beep faded into the background, and the striped shirt that hung against him came into view, along with his pale arms and the blue blanket folded over his torso.

Bakura blinked a couple of times, inhaling the soft and cool atmosphere, before turning his head. Ah, yes…He remembered now. He remembered everything, though he wasn't sure how he had ever forgotten. Slowly, he reached down and removed the needles, pulling them cleanly out of his flesh and leaving them to hang from the machine beside him.

One socked foot planted itself on the floor, followed by the other, and he managed to stand up. The beeping trailed off into a slow, monotone hum, but he tuned it out in his thoughts, sharp eyes glancing around the room. That Pharaoh…hurting his host this way, as if he wanted and needed to take away everything and anything that was ever dear to him.

Tonight, the memories of his past had returned to him more clearly in sleep than ever before. Five thousand years of distance, and Bakura couldn't have blamed himself for not remembering most of the goings-on consciously.

Still…He remembered one thing.

He released a short breath, running his mind over the most current of events he could recall. His boarding of the Battle City blimp, his subsequent defeat by the Pharaoh, and…He raised his head slightly. No. It couldn't be.

It couldn't happen again. Atem could not take him away again!

How long had he been asleep?

Suddenly, a soft, gentle warmth began to spread around his abdomen. He chanced a look down, frowning, watching the gentle ebb and flow of the Millennium Ring's glow against his stomach. As he looked, one spike gently rose upwards, pointing across the room and over to the door.

That slow, warm feeling moved down through his chest and stomach, and he turned, following.

He didn't know what he expected to find. Even for somebody with such extensive experience with Millennium items, both in the distant past and recent future, he had never quite deduced how they seemed to act of their own free will. Sometimes, they sought out other Millennium items, but other times…

He walked to the door and opened it, stepping out into the quiet hall. Slowly, the spike turned of its own control and pointed right instead, directing him.

Bakura complied and followed, taking measured steps along the polished floors. He reached the vending machines and paused again, watching as the spike directed him to the left, down the next hall.

His bare feet made soft, rhythmic sounds as he moved, wanting, needing to know where he was going, and why. He knew he should feel the rage, that same rage he had experienced in the final vestiges of his dreamed memories, but he didn't. Instead, he felt cold, unsteady, as if he were walking very methodically along a line of wire.

Atem had probably won. Atem always won. Was there any hope…?

He moved to walk past one of the nondescript doors and froze mid-step as the ring spike fell down, dangling without glow, as if it had never moved at all. Bakura turned, facing the door, and tried the knob, turning it smoothly and pushing it open.

The sight that met him all but had him vomiting. He approached the side of the bed, looking down at the small, weak little blond who laid face-up in the bed, connected similarly to IVs and a heart monitor. This kid…Bakura shook his head at himself. Of course.

Why had he thought any differently? It was just as it had been all those eons back.

Marik was dead, Atem had won, and Seto Kaiba was parading his riches in everyone's face.

He collapsed to his knees, arms falling onto the limp body as his face pressed into the mattress. Why…Why? Why had he bothered to come back? Why had he thought things would change? Why did the Pharaoh always have to win?

He remembered his first interactions with Marik in this timeline, which, in the beginning, had only given him a funny feeling of remembrance with no actual concrete revelations to speak of. He had recognized the anger in his soul, known it had something to do with the younger sibling, but he hadn't remembered everything… Now, however, with his memories returned, he understood.

Marik had died with that rod inside his robes, just as Bakura himself had died with the ring against his chest. It made more sense now, why their souls had been trapped inside those items, waiting for a moment to break free, to exact their revenge against everything and everyone that had tormented their families.

He and Marik hadn't exactly gotten along in this timeline, but it didn't matter. Their goal had been the same, really. He supposed it had been in their personalities, to fight for a chance to eliminate the Pharaoh. Even if neither of them had remembered, those feelings had still been there, the hatred, the anger, the sadness…

Bakura slowly lifted his head, looking at the innocent face.

Had Marik remembered?

It seemed unlikely. Probably, he had been just like Bakura; blinded by the need to protect what was his, and driven by the knowledge that he had another chance to strike back.

He sighed, slowly making his way back to his feet. He turned on his heels in preparation to leave when a gleam caught his eye, sparkling from the corner of the room and stopping him. Curious, he made his way over to a table pushed against the opposite corner, watching as the low light of the medical machines illuminated the long, golden staff he remembered so well.

A little smile made its way to his lips, recalling the small memory from his dreams. He still didn't know how the hell Marik had gotten the rod back then, either, but the fact that they were all there together again was either supreme irony, or a terrible, repeating destiny he didn't know how many times he would have to relive.

How many times would they have to die at the hands of the Pharaoh?

Without a thought, Bakura reached for the rod and grasped it in his hands, before holding it into his chest in a tight embrace. The metal clinked against the rod as he clung on, closing his eyes, just letting the feeling of cold metal pulse against his flesh. Somehow, the ring began to feel warm again, as if it was sucking the heat from his body, the conscious thought from his brain.

If Marik was gone, he had the vague feeling it would only be so long before he was gone, just like the last time…

His eyes rolled back in his head, and the white body collapsed to the ground. The rod flew from his hand and clattered along the tire floor, white body splaying itself out on its front, hair wild everywhere and falling around the pale face.

Bakura was vaguely aware of a heart beating, and of a confused, little voice calling out in the edges of his subconscious, but he felt like he was falling.

And then he hit.

"Tghh!"

Stars exploded behind his eyes, but surprisingly, there was no pain. He splayed his limbs, grasping at nothing, before grounding himself, watching as his vision faded again into view.

He was seated on grass, soft and airy beneath his legs, and the blades tickled his thighs, causing him confusion about the state of his dress. He looked down and observed the tunic, olive-green and long, yet clean, and draped familiarly over his skinny body.

This was not the same reality. Testing his muscles, he slowly hoisted himself up onto his knees, eyes turning and gazing over his surroundings. The grass persisted for about a hundred feet before trailing into what looked like sand, so he turned in that direction and moved off.

Steps came into view. Many steps forming shallow staircases, which slowly began to build into his vision, arching higher and higher among the sands. He froze momentarily, recognizing the mud-brick material, the shapes of the staircases.

It looked like the Millennium Puzzle, but it couldn't be…

He gulped. The Ring? Bakura had spent Eons in the Millennium Ring, sitting in a dark room, surrounded by bricks just like these. He had been in the darkness, save for a single candle, lighting his misery. He remembered that well also. This was different. Perhaps…A different chamber?

"Yo~"

He turned, staring down, meeting lavender eyes peering from a crevice among the clay staircases, and all but fell over.

"…You," he replied, throat dry. Slowly, the blond crown of hair emerged, bare feet making their way up the staircase and to stand across from Bakura.

"Missed me?" Marik inquired teasingly, and Bakura felt as though every muscle in his body had melted into goo.

"…The Pharaoh killed you!" he accused, biting his lip and taking a step forward. It occurred to him that Marik, too, was wearing the same tunic from his ancient memories. The blond sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, he got me again," he admitted and shrugged, holding his hands up. "Heh, but I'm still here. They think they banished me to the afterlife, or whatever. Looks like I found a way around it again. You too, huh, Waterlily?"

He couldn't resist a gasp.

"You remember, too," Bakura accused, eyes wide. How long had he remembered their history together? How much did he know?

"Yeah, I do now." Marik sighed and took another step forward, mouth turned up in amusement. "You can thank the Pharaoh for that. Dying again knocked some stuff back into me."

Suddenly, Bakura remembered. The ring was supposed to guide him to whatever he sought. Back in the palace, five thousand years in the past, and a few minutes ago in one of the Battle City blimp's guest bedrooms, he had been seeking the exact same thing.

It had led him to Marik.

"…We are inside the Ring, right?" he inquired and walked up alongside him, butting shoulders and gazing out at the large, grass field before catching the purple gaze. "I, uh…"

Marik grinned at him.

"I dunno. I guess. I was walking around in the rod, which looks like a desert, by the way." A pause. "Did you snuggle me so hard we both passed over?"

Bakura hit him in the chest but grinned a little nonetheless.

"I thought contact of the Millennium items might yield something satisfactory," he huffed in response. Marik laughed, the low, sweet chuckle he remembered, and Bakura was happy he didn't have a physical heart anymore, lest it beat so hard it burst out somehow.

"Is this satisfactory?"

Marik's arms around him made everything feel right. Bakura reached out, holding on and embracing with fervour. Everything would be all right, now. Marik's brother was alive, and could get on with his own life. He knew that was important to Marik, and while he had a different relationship with little Ryou, himself, Bakura had felt his presence in the body before he had ended up here, so he was sure he would be fine, too.

"What do we do now, then?" Bakura grunted against the warm chest, still clinging on. He didn't want to let go. The few days they had spent together all those years ago were more important than any other time in his eons of life, and he could feel Marik's reciprocation, feel the warmth of his soul enveloping his not-so-physical body.

"Heh, I dunno. Explore, I guess. There's gotta be a hell of a lot more around here," the blond replied and pulled away, grinning down at Bakura with obvious excitement.

"You're lucky~ This place is way more interesting than the rod. Let's check it out."

He followed Marik as they took off over the grass and into the distance, watching as trees began to surround them on either side. For once in his life, there was no hunger. No thirst for knowledge, no craving for warmth, no uncertainty or hatred itching at his skin. Bakura had had one reason to live throughout his whole life, but this time, Marik had been just as good of a reason to die.

"…What happened to Seto while I was sleeping?" he inquired, reaching out to snatch Marik's golden hand and feeling their fingers intertwine. Marik laughed.

"He lost his own tournament," he sang, and Bakura put his free hand to his stomach and laughed heartily. He heard Marik snicker.

"Loser!"

~  
This is the end. Thanks!


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